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FAMILIAR  TALKS 

ON 

ENGLISH    LITERATURE 


FAMILIAR  TALKS 


ON 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 


^  Piannal 

EMBRACING  THE  GREAT   EPOCHS  OF   ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

FROM    THE    ENGLISH    CONQUEST   OF   BRITAIN,  449 

TO  THE  DEATH  OF  WALTER  SCOTT,  1832 


By  ABBY   sage   RICHARDSON 


In  literature  we  have  present,  and  prepared  to  form  us,  the  best  which  has 
been  taught  and  said  in  the  world.  Our  business  is  to  get  at  this  best,  and 
to  know  it  well.  —  Matthew  Arnold. 


ELEVENTH    EDITION 

CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG   &   CO. 
1903 

■sfs 


Copyright 

By  Jansen,  McClurg,  and  Co. 

A.D.  1881 

Copyright 

By  a.  C.  McClurg  and  Co. 

A.D.  1892 


PREFACE. 


AS  the  title  of  my  book  suggests,  this  is  a  history 
of  English  literature  told  in  familiar  style.  Its 
first  and  overruling  purpose  is  to  create  a  desire,  on 
the  part  of  those  who  read  it,  to  know  the  best  works 
of  our  best  authors.  I  do  not  believe  in  anything 
said  or  written  about  English  Hterature  that  shall 
serve  as  a  substitute  for  literature  itself,  or  that  does 
not  lead  directly  to  the  reading  of  the  best  books. 
For  my  own  part,  I  would  rather  know  thoroughly 
half-a-dozen  English  classics  than  all  the  works  on 
literature  ever  written. 

Although  for  several  years  I  have  been  talking  to 
classes,  principally  of  young  women,  on  the  subjects 
this  book  includes,  this  is  in  no  way  a  report  of  those 
talks,  but  has  a  unity  and  sequence  which  is  not  quite 
possible  in  detached  lectures.  I  have  endeavored  to 
show  the  growth  of  English  literature  from  its  begin- 
ning down  to  the  end  of  the  first  third  of  this  cen- 
tury. From  that  time  the  great  names  that  appear 
are  the  names  of  living  men,  or  of  men  but  lately 
dead,  whose  place  in  the  archives  of  literature  is  not 
yet  assigned.  It  is  time  only  which  tries  the  value 
of  an  author  and  sets  him  among  his  peers. 

In  a  small  volume  like  this,  where  I  have  made  the 
attempt  to  combine  brevity  with  a  certain  amount  of 


VI  PREFACE. 

detail  about  the  author  spoken  of,  together  with  an 
extract  from  his  works,  it  has  been  impossible  to 
mention  every  great  name  in  the  annals  of  English 
literature.  What  I  have  tried  to  do  has  been  to 
touch  on  the  salient  points  in  the  growth  of  litera- 
ture ;  to  mention  the  names  of  those  who  have  had 
any  marked  influence  upon  it;  to  show  briefly  the 
cause  of  this  influence ;  and,  where  it  was  possible,  to 
quote  sufficient  from  the  author  to  excite  a  desire  to 
know  more  of  him.  To  carry  out  this  plan  in  small 
space  required  that  much  should  be  left  unsaid  which 
I  should  like  to  say,  and  that  many  names  should  be 
omitted  which  are  worth  more  than  a  mere  mention ; 
it  also  required  that  I  should  keep  strictly  within  the 
limits  of  pure  literature,  —  poetry,  essays,  fiction, — 
and  leave  the  writings  of  historians,  divines,  and 
scientists  out  of  my  plan  of  work,  except  where  they 
are  associated  with  elegant  literature. 

As  this  is  in  no  wise  a  cyclopedia  of  literature,  I 
have  not  given  biographical  sketches  of  these  writers, 
and  have  purposely  omitted  all  facts  about  them  ex- 
cept those  facts  of  character  or  life  which  bear  upon 
their  work,  sometimes  adding  incidents  which  would 
give  interest  or  vividness  to  the  story.  I  have  always 
felt  it  unjust  to  literature  to  associate  too  closely  the 
external  life  of  an  author  with  his  productions,  and  I 
have  tried  to  avoid  that  injustice.  Handbooks  of 
literature,  especially  those  used  in  schools,  have  been 
too  much  like  graveyards,  where  a  series  of  stones 
record  the  life,  death,  and  principal  events  relating  to 
an  author,  ending  with  a  few  lines  from  his  work  as 
a  sort  of  epitaph.  I  think  this  method  has  made 
the  study  of  literature  uninteresting.  Therefore,  if  my 
treatment  of  the  facts  about  a  writer  is  desultory,  and 


PREFACE.  Vii 

leaves  unsaid  what  the  cyclopaedias  say,  it  is  to  be 
understood  as  part  of  my  method. 

The  style  I  have  used  may  be  regarded  as  some- 
times too  familiar  for  the  subject.  But  I  hope  my 
book  may  be  read  largely  by  young  people ;  I  hope 
it  may  be  read  aloud  in  classes  devoted  to  the  study 
of  literature ;  and  I  have  therefore  used  a  colloquial 
tone,  hoping  by  this  means  more  easily  to  gain  the 
interest  and  the  ear  of  the  reader. 

I  have  used  the  words  "  ^«r  literature,"  "  ^«r  English 
authors,"  all  through  the  book  with  intention.  Writ- 
ing as  I  do  for  American  readers,  for  the  young 
people  of  our  country,  I  have  endeavored  to  impress 
on  them  a  pride  in  the  works  written  in  their  lan- 
guage ;  I  want  them  to  feel  that  they  have  as  much 
share  and  as  much  cause  for  pride  in  the  glorious 
names  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton  as  if  their  grand- 
fathers had  not  crossed  the  ocean  to  settle  in  Massa- 
chusetts or  Virginia.  English  literature  to  the  year 
1800  is  as  much  ^?^r  literature  as  it  is  that  of  any  girl 
or  boy  born  in  London  or  in  Yorkshire.  Let  us  lay 
hold  of  and  claim  this  grand  inheritance. 

A.  S.  R. 


CONTENTS. 


PART    I. 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE  BEFORE  CHAUCER.    449x0  1350. 

Page 

INTRODUCTORY 17 

Talk 

I.    Telling  about  the  English  People,  who   they 

WERE,     AND    how    THEY    FIRST    CAME    TO    THE    IS- 
LAND OF  Britain 20 

II.    Telling  how  Letters  and  Learning  first  came 

TO  England 23 

III.  The  Beginnings  of  English  Literature    ....      27 

IV.  On  the  Form  of  Early  English  Poetry,  and  the 

Old  Poem  of  C^dmon 33 

V.  Telling  of  the  Venerable  Beda  and  of  King 
Alfred  the  Good,  and  of  the  Work  they  did 
in  Literature 37 

VI.    Telling  how  William  the  Norman  came  to  the 

Conquest  of  England 40 

VII.  On  Literature  under  the  Normans,  especially 
in  the  Reign  of  Henry  II.;  and  the  Legends 
of  Arthur  and  his  Knights  of  the  Round 
Table 44 

VIII.  On  the  Struggles  of  the  English  Speech  to 
hold  its  own  against  the  Norman;  of  Old 
Ballads,  especially  the  Robin  Hood  Ballads  ; 
the  "  Old  Geste  of  Robin  Hood  and  Guy  of 
Gisborne" 49 

IX.  How  the  English  Language  finally  came  to  its 
own  again,  and  what  Books  and  Authors 
helped  to  keep  it  alive  in  the  Twelfth  and 
Thirteenth  Centuries 54 


X  CONTENTS. 

PART    II. 

FROM  CHAUCER    TO   SPENSER.     1350  to  1550. 

Ta  lk  Pagb 

X.  Telling  of  some  of  the  Men  who  wrote  in 
Chaucer's  Time;  and  of  the  "Vision  of 
Piers  Ploughman  " 61 

XI.  On  Three  Great  Contemporaries  of  Chaucer, 
—  John  Wycliffe,  John  Mandeville,  and 
John  Gower 64 

XII.    On  Geoffrey  Chaucer,  his  Life  and  Poetry     .      69 

XIII.  On  the  Stories  of  the  Canterbury  Pilgrims    .      74 

XIV.  Telling  of  some  of  the  Great  Events  of  the 

Fifteenth   Century,  —  of    C.\xton    and    his 
Printing-Press,     and    of    the   Romance   of 

THE   "  MORTE  D'ArTHUR" 79 

XV.  On  Literature  in  the  Reign  of  Henry  VIII.; 
More's  Utopia;  Tyndale's  Bible;  Skelton, 
the  Court  Poet;  the  Sonnets  of  Surrey 
AND  Wyait 84 

PART    III. 
FROM  SPENSER  AND  SHAKESPEARE  TO  MILTON. 

1550  TO   1608. 

INTRODUCTORY  95 

XVI.    On  Edmund  Spenser 97 

XVH.    On  Spenser's  "Fairy  Queen" 102 

XVIII.    On  Sir  Philip  Sidney  and  THE  "  Arcadia  "    .    .  108 

XIX.    On  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  Samuel   Daniel,  and 

Michael  Drayton 113 

XX.    On   Francis  Bacon,  Baron  Verulam,  Viscount 

St.  Albans xi6 

XXI.    On  the  English  Drama  and  some  of  the  Play- 
Writers  WHO  came  before  Shakespeare  .    .    121 


CONTENTS.  XI 

Talk  Pace 

XXII.  On  Christopher  Marlowe,  the  Great  Prede- 
cessor OF  Shakespeare 129 

XXIII.  On  William   Shakespeare,  his  Life,  Charac- 

ter, AND  Works 136 

XXIV.  Extracts  from  Shakespeare's  Plays,  —  "  Rich- 

ard II.;"  "Hamlet;"  "The  Tempest"  .    .     144 

XXV.  On  the  Dramatic  Poets  who  lived  in  Shake- 
speare's Time,  —  Ben  Jonson  ;  Beaumont 
AND  Fletcher 153 

XXVI.    On   George    Chapman,    John   Webster,   John 

Marston,  and  other  Dramatists    ....     162 

XXVII.  On  the  Singers  of  the  Golden  Age  of  Poet- 
ry,—  Donne,  Wotton,  Wither,  Herbert, 
and  Herrick 169 

XXVIII.    On  the  Singers  of  the  Golden  Age  of  Poetry, 

—  Carew,  Suckling,  Lovelace,  Waller     .    177 


PART    IV. 

THE  CIVIL  WAR  AND  THE  RESTORATION.      MILTON 
TO  DRYDEN.     1608  to  1700. 

INTRODUCTORY 185 

XXIX.    On  John  Milton 189 

XXX.    Milton's     "Comus,"    "Paradise     Lost,"    and 

"Samson  Agonistes" 196 

XXXI.    On  Milton's  Contemporaries,  — Marvell,  Cow- 
ley, AND  Butler 201 

XXXII.    The   Diaries   of   Samuel    Pepys    and    John 

Evelyn 212 

XXXIII.  On  the  Prose  Writers  of  the  Seventeenth 

Century;  John  Bunyan  and  his  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress" 219 

XXXIV.  On  the   Drama   of  the   Restoration;   John 

Dryden  and  his  Contemporaries  ....    228 


xu 


CONTENTS. 


PART    V. 

FROM  POPE  TO  WORDSWORTH.     1700  to  1790. 

Pack 
INTRODUCTORY 243 

Talk 

XXXV.    On  Alexander    Pope    and    his    School    of 

Poetry 246 

XXXVI.     On  Prior,  Gay,  and  Parnell 251 

XXXVII.    On  the  Author  of  "Robinson  Crusoe"    .    .    257 
XXXVIII.    On   Addison  and   Steele,  Editors  of    "The 

Spectator  " 264 

XXXIX.    On  Addison's  Essays 270 

XL.    On  the  Great  Dean  Swift 274 

XLI.    English  Comedy  Writers,  —  Congreve,  Van- 

brugh,  and  Farquhar 282 

XLII.    A  Group  of  Eighteenth  Century  Poets, — 

Young,  Thomson,  and  Shenstone  ....    286 
XLIII.    Other    Eighteenth   Century  Poets,  —  Gray, 

Collins,  Akenside,  and  Beattie     ....    293 
XLIV.    On  the  Birth  of  the  English  Novel  :  Rich- 
ardson AND  Fielding 298 

XLV.    The  Novelists  Smollett  and  Sterne     .    .    .    304 

XLVI.    On  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson 307 

XLVII.    On   Oliver   Goldsmith   and   "The  Vicar  of 

Wakefield" 313 

XLVIII.    On  the  First  Woman  Novelist 319 

XLIX.    The    Work   of    Thomas    Percy   and    James 
Macpherson,    and    the    Sad     Story     of 
Thomas  Chatterton,  the  Boy-Poet   .    .    .    326 
L.    On  William  Cowper  and  Robert  Burns   .    .    336 


PART    VI . 
THE  LAKE  SCHOOL  AND  ITS  CONTEMPORARIES. 

1790  TO    1832. 

INTRODUCTORY 347 

LI.    On  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 351 


CONTENTS. 


Xlll 


Talk 


LII.    On  William  Wordsworth  and  Robert  Southey 
LIII.    On  Thomas  Campbell  and  Tom  Moore 
On  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  Lord  Byron 

On  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

On  John  Keats 

On  Some  Friends  of  the  Lake  Poets. 


LIV. 

LV. 

LVL 

LVII. 

LVin. 


Page 

356 
364 
374 
384 
393 
401 


On  Sir  Walter  Scorr  and  the  Waverley  Novels    410 


INDEX 


427 


€n$li^i)   iLiteratuire. 


PART    I. 
BEFORE    CHAUCER. 

449  TO  1350. 


FAMILIAR    TALKS 


ON 


ENGLISH      LITERATURE. 


INTRODUCTORY. 

A  GREAT  preacher  of  the  past,  writing  many  hundred 
years  before  the  invention  of  printing,  said :  "  Of 
making  many  books  there  is  no  end."  I  often  wonder 
what  he  would  think  of  this  century  in  which  we  live. 
More  than  any  other  since  the  world  began,  this  is  an  age 
of  books.  Every  year  the  great  printing-presses  turn  out 
thousands  of  volumes  and  innumerable  magazines  and 
newspapers.  Every  year  books  become  more  and  more  a 
factor  in  the  education  of  all  classes  of  people,  the  poor  as 
well  as  the  rich.  In  days  when  there  were  no  printing- 
presses,  when  everything  had  to  be  copied  with  tedious 
labor  upon  parchment  or  paper,  the  knowledge  of  books 
was  confined  to  few.  Now  the  boys  and  girls  in  our  com- 
mon schools  can  know  more  books,  and  can  easily  own  a 
larger  nuniber,  than  could  the  kings  and  nobles  of  early  days. 
This  does  not  prove  that  the  man  without  books  need  be 
ignorant,  or  the  man  with  them  altogether  learned.  There 
is  a  great  deal  of  culture  to  be  gained  outside  a  printed 
page,  and  a  man  may  be  a  narrow-minded  pedant  with  his 
head  stuffed  with  book-learning;  a  great  poet  has  told  us 
about  — 

"  The  bookful  blockhead,  ignorantly  read, 
With  loads  of  learned  lumber  in  his  head." 

But  the  man  who  combines  the  largest  knowledge  of  good 
books  with  breadth  of  thought,  wide  experience,  and  prac- 


iS  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

tical  knowledge  of  the  world,  is  likely  to  be  a  man  of  the 
highest  and  best  culture. 

Since  we  believe,  therefore,  that  books  are  among  the 
most  important  tools  with  which  we  are  to  carve  out  our 
hves,  we  want  to  know  something  about  the  best  books  in 
the  world.  Among  the  great  quantities  of  matter  which 
come  day  after  day  from  our  printing-presses  there  must,  of 
course  be  a  great  deal  of  rubbish  \  and  the  books  preserved 
to  us  from  the  past  are  likely  to  be  the  best,  because  time 
has  sifted  much  of  the  chaff  from  the  wheat,  and  preserved 
only  the  wisest  and  wittiest  things  that  have  issued  from 
men's  minds.  In  the  old  books  of  the  past  we  find  a  rec- 
ord of  the  best  thoughts  of  the  greatest  minds  that  have 
ever  lived.  And  in  the  books  written  by  men  of  the  past 
who  spoke  the  language  that  we  speak,  we  shall  find  a  rec- 
ord of  the  thoughts  and  deeds  of  that  race  from  which  we 
are  descended.  See,  then,  what  an  influence  these  deeds 
and  thoughts  of  the  great  Englishmen  of  the  past  must 
have  on  us  to-day.  Picture  in  your  imagination  this  stream 
of  thought,  like  a  great  river,  flowing  down  through  hundreds 
of  years,  bearing  in  its  bosom  so  much  to  fertilize  and  enrich 
the  age  in  which  we  live,  and  bearing  onward  to  the  future, 
from  our  own  time,  all  that  is  noblest  and  greatest.  This 
wonderful  river  of  thought,  flowing  down  to  us  and  beyond 
us,  is  English  Literature.  And  if  you  can  feel  how  inter- 
esting is  the  knowledge  of  the  books  that  keep  a  record  of 
this  thought,  written  in  our  English  speech  from  the  earliest 
days,  and  how  important  it  is  to  know  something  about  it, 
we  can  begin  together,  with  real  interest  and  sympathy, 
these  Talks  on  English  Literature. 

In  one  sense  literature  comprises  all  the  books  ever  writ- 
ten,—  books  on  philosophy,  science,  text-books  on  all  sub- 
jects, as  well  as  poetry,  essays,  and  fiction.  But  by  general 
understanding  there  has  come  to  be  a  division  in  the  world 
of  books ;  and  the  department  of  poetry,  fiction,  and  the 
elegant  classics  is  separated  from  the  more  profound  and 
scientific  order  of  writing.  This  first  department  is  some- 
times called  pure  literature,  or  "polite  literature."      The 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  1 9 

French  say  belles  lettres,  —  meaning  beautiful  literature.  It 
is  this  beautiful  literature  —  the  writings  of  the  poets,  the 
essayists,  and  the  novehsts  —  that  these  Talks  are  designed 
to  touch  upon. 

Among  these  writers  the  poet  is  the  chief,  and  it  is  the 
poet  to  whom  in  this  book  we  shall  give  the  most  attention. 
Of  all  writers  the  poet  has  done  most  in  all  ages  to  refine 
and  elevate.  There  is  something  in  the  melodious  arrange- 
ment of  words,  richly  clothing  a  beautiful  thought,  that  has 
been  able  to  influence  the  mind  in  all  ages.  The  poet  makes 
even  common  things  seem  rich,  and  if  he  puts  a  noble 
spirit  in  his  verse,  he  makes  life  seem  purer  and  higher.  As 
Sir  Philip  Sidney  says  :  "  Now  therein,  of  all  sciences  is  our 
poet  the  monarch.  He  cometh  to  you  with  words  set  in 
delightful  proportion,  either  accompanied  with,  or  prepared 
for,  the  well- enchanting  skill  of  music,  and  with  a  tale,  for- 
sooth, he  cometh  unto  you,  —  with  a  tale  which  holdeth 
children  from  play,  and  old  men  from  the  chimney-corner. 
And  pretending  no  more,  doth  intend  the  winning  of  the 
mind  from  wickedness  to  virtue,  even  as  the  child  is  often 
brought  to  take  most  wholesome  things  by  hiding  them  in 
such  other  as  have  a  pleasant  taste."  Therefore,  although 
we  intend  in  these  Talks  to  follow  the  whole  course  of 
English  literature,  we  shall  dwell  longest  upon  the  poets 
and  their  works. 

I  have  thus  given  you  in  brief  the  plan  of  our  Talks.  I 
hope,  as  we  go  on  together,  you  will  find  such  an  interest 
in  literature,  and  so  feel  its  worth  and  richness,  that  from 
such  brief  accounts  of  the  great  authors  and  their  works 
as  I  can  give  you,  you  will  be  led  to  know  them  more 
thoroughly,  and  to  make  them  your  friends.  "And  the 
love  of  books,"  says  a  French  writer,  "is  one  which,  having 
taken  possession  of  a  man,  will  never  leave  him ;  a  book 
is  a  friend  which  never  changes." 


20  FAMILIAR    TALKS 


I. 


Telling  about  the  English  People,  who  they  were,  and 
HOW  they  first  came  to  the  Island  of  Britain. 

BEFORE  we  begin  to  talk  of  English  literature,  we  nat- 
urally want  to  know  something  about  the  people  from 
whom  the  name  of  "  England  "  and  "  English  "  is  derived, 
since  from  their  language  our  modern  speech  has  been 
formed,  and  it  is  they  whom  we  are  proud  to  call  our  fore- 
fathers. Let  us  first  ask,  then,  who  these  people  were  that 
have  stamped  their  name  and  speech  so  powerfully  on 
the  world's  history. 

We  find  them,  first,  as  a  union  of  tribes  known  by  the 
names  of  Saxons,  Jutes,  and  Angles,  or  "  English,"  dwelling 
in  that  part  of  Europe  which  borders  the  North  Sea,  and  in  the 
islands  close  to  this  mainland.  Whence  they  came  thither, 
and  how  long  they  had  possessed  that  soil,  we  are  not  cer- 
tain. We  are  told  that  most  of  the  nations  of  Europe  have 
sprung  from  a  great  mother-race  called  the  Aryan  race  ;  that 
this  Aryan  race  has  many  branches ;  and  that  the  Teutonic 
branch  of  the  family  is  among  the  strongest  of  them  all. 
Wherever  we  find  these  fair-haired,  blue-eyed,  strong-limbed 
men,  who  speak  in  Teutonic  tongues,^  we  find  them 
playing  an  important  part  in  history.  It  was  a  tribe  of 
these  Teutons,  the  Goths,  who  in  the  fourth  and  fifth  cen- 
turies swooped  down  on  the  great  Roman  empire  and 
trampled  it  under  their  feet.  It  was  another  band  of  these 
strong  heroes,  called  Franks,  or  "  free-men,"  who  conquered 
what  was  formerly  known  as  Gaul,  and  gave  it  its  modem 

'  The  languages  derived  from  the  Teutonic  branch  of  the  Aryan 
are:  ist,  Gothic;  2d,  Scandinavian;  3d,  High-German;  4th,  Low- 
German.  The  Gothic  is  the  oldest  of  these.  From  the  High-German 
comes  modern  German;  from  the  Scandinavian,  the  languages  of 
Denmark,  Sweden,  Norway,  and  Iceland;  from  the  Low-German, 
English  and  Dutch. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  21 

name  of  France.  It  was  the  Scandinavian  division  of  these 
peoples  who,  spreading  from  Denmark  to  NorAvay  and 
Sweden,  became  the  sea-kings  of  the  North,  —  sending 
their  ships  to  colonize  Iceland,  and  sailing  over  the  North- 
ern Atlantic  to  Greenland  more  than  four  hundred  years 
before  Columbus  discovered  America.  And  it  was  still 
another  horde  of  these  Teutons  who,  settling  all  along  the 
moist,  uninviting  shores  of  the  North  Sea,  finally  became 
the  conquerors  and  holders  of  the  British  Isles.  Angles,  or 
"  English,"  was  the  name  common  to  the  tribes  inhabiting 
the  various  settlements  along  the  coasts  of  the  North  Sea 
and  in  its  islands  ;  so  that  of  all  the  names  which  could  have 
been  given  to  this  great  nation,  none  is  so  appropriate  as 
the  English. 

Adventurous  and  bold  as  they  were  by  nature,  and  living  on 
the  borders  of  the  North  Sea,  or  in  the  islands  surrounded 
by  its  waters,  they  naturally  became  daring  sailors,  hold- 
ing stern  rule  over  the  waves  they  claimed  as  their  rightful 
domain.  Their  power  was  soon  felt  among  neighboring 
nations,  and  they  were  heard  of  in  the  island  of  Britain, 
separated  from  it  only  by  the  seas  on  which  they  ranged. 

This  island  of  Britain  was  then  inhabited  by  a  people 
who  belonged  to  the  Keltic  branch  of  the  great  Aryan 
family.  These  were  the  Kymry,  the  Ancient  Britons  of 
history.  Long  before  the  coming  of  the  English  the  coun- 
try of  the  Britons  had  been  invaded  by  Roman  legions 
under  the  great  Cassar,  and  the  Roman  empire  had  kept  up 
a  sort  of  rule  through  the  reigns  of  several  emperors.  The 
Romans  had  built  military  roads,  camps,  and  walls  on  British 
soil ;  and  as  they  were  the  best  road- makers  in  the  world,  you 
may  find  many  traces  of  their  work  in  England  to  this  day. 
The  Romans,  too,  had  brought  Christianity  to  Britain,  and 
the  new  religion  was  adopted  there  ;  so  that  the  Britons  felt 
their  superiority  over  other  peoples,  and  looked  on  their 
neighbor  Teutons  across  the  North  Sea  as  barbarous  and 
heathen  men  who  knew  not  the  true  God  and  were  outside 
the  pale  of  religion  and  civilization.  You  will  find  it  hard 
to  believe  that  the  Britons  could    have  invited  a  people 


22  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

whom  they  so  looked  down  upon  to  come  and  live  among 
them.  Yet  in  the  middle  of  the  fifth  century  such  an  invi- 
tation was  given,  and  a  band  of  English,  led  by  Hen- 
gist  and  Horsa,  took  advantage  of  it.  The  Britons 
were  led  to  make  this  invitation  by  a  mixture  of  fear  and  pru- 
dence. They  had  at  their  backs  in  Scotland,  and  across  the 
Irish  Sea  in  Ireland,  bands  of  savage  enemies,  the  Picts  and 
the  Scots,  who  were  constantly  overrunning  and  devastating 
Britain.  These  enemies  were  dreaded  by  the  British,  who 
dreaded  almost  equally  the  savage  rovers  of  the  North  Sea. 
But  they  thought,  by  making  friends  with  the  latter  and 
inviting  them  to  come  to  Britain,  they  might  get  their  aid 
against  Scot  and  Pict.  Therefore  Vortigern,  a  British  king, 
introduced  Hengist  and  Horsa  into  the  land  as  his  allies. 
And  after  coming  thither,  Hengist  made  a  marriage  between 
his  daughter  Rowena  and  the  king,  so  that  an  English 
woman  became  a  queen  in  Britain. 

Having  once  set  foot  in  the  British  domains,  the  English 
people,  with  that  tenacity  which  is  a  part  of  their  character, 
prepared  to  stay  there.  They  called  the  Britons  Welsh,  — 
which  xiif3sv%  foreigner,  —  and  began  to  treat  them  as  if  they 
were  really  interlopers  and  foreigners  on  their  own  lands. 
The  Britons,  no  less  obstinate  than  the  English,  refused  to 
surrender,  and  were  driven,  inch  by  inch,  westward  and 
southward  into  the  strongholds  in  the  mountains  of  Wales 
and  to  the  rocky  peninsula  of  Cornwall.  Here  their  lan- 
guage, their  literature,  and  their  religion  were  fostered  as 
they  had  been  before  the  hated  English  landed  in  Britain. 
Meanwhile  the  English  grew  and  spread  over  the  island  now 
called  England,  on  which  they  had  fought  for  their  place  till 
they  were  firmly  established  as  the  rightful  owners  of  the 
land.  And  thus,  by  the  right  of  conquest,  the  English 
people  became  possessors  of  England. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  23 


II. 

Telling  how  Letters  and  Learning  first  came  to 

England. 

YOU  will  readily  guess  that  these  warlike  English,  when 
they  landed  on  the  shores  of  England,  were  not  a  lit- 
erary people.  The  Britons,  who  were  such  savages  in  the 
eyes  of  the  cultured  Romans,  were  much  more  advanced  in 
learning  and  religion  than  their  English  conquerors.  Yet 
the  Teutonic  peoples  did  have  a  system  of  writing,  in  char- 
acters called  Runes,  which  they  claimed  had  been  taught 
them  by  their  god  Odin,  or  Woden.  These  Runic  letters 
were  carved  on  stone  or  wood,  which  had  been  used  by  all 
ancient  peoples  before  paper  or  parchment  was  discovered. 
Egypt  wrote  her  hieroglyphics  on  stone,  just  as  the  North 
American  Indian  cut  upon  the  bowlders  of  his  native  coun- 
try the  rude  picture-writing  which  preserves  the  memory  of 
his  battles.  Thus  the  Teutons  had  engraved  their  Runes, 
doubtless  on  the  stones  and  trees  of  their  various  dwelling- 
places.  Our  word  book  is  from  boc,  the  Early  English  for 
beech-tree,  —  probably  because  the  beech  is  a  hard  wood, 
which  could  easily  be  used  by  the  early  book-makers.  Still, 
with  only  stone  and  wood  in  place  of  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  we 
cannot  expect  to  find  any  works  of  literature  among  our 
English  when  they  came  to  their  new  home  in  Britain. 

The  want  of  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  however,  or  even  of 
written  characters,  does  not  prevent  a  people  from  having 
its  poetry  or  history.  We  do  not  know  a  tribe  so  barbarous 
that  they  have  not  had  among  them  a  story-teller  or  minstrel, 
—  the  earliest  historian  or  poet  of  a  people.  These  men 
repeat  the  traditions  of  the  past  or  the  deeds  of  the  men 
around  them  ;  and  these  stories,  rehearsed  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  or  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation, 
before  the  time  of  book-making,  might  in  later  times  get 
written  down,  and  so  become  the  first  history  or  the  earliest 


24  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

poem  of  a  nation.  The  Britons  had  their  bards,  who  sang 
to  harps  songs  of  war  and  praises  of  heroes.  The  Scandi- 
navians had  a  sagaman  and  scald ;  the  English  their  scop 
and  glccman.  The  chiefs  honored  these  men  as  princes 
honor  poets.  They  had  them  at  their  feasts,  they  took 
them  to  the  field  of  battle  ;  and  the  court  of  these  old  rulers 
would  not  have  been  complete  without  its  minstrel.  These 
singers  or  story-tellers  would  keep  alive  the  traditions  of 
their  tribes,  and  it  is  probable  that  they  preserved  from 
father  to  son  the  old  stories  which  had  been  told  among  the 
Teutonic  branch  of  the  Aryan  family,  before  they  broke  up 
into  different  tribes ;  for  among  the  Germans,  Scandina- 
vians, and  English  there  is  a  great  likeness  in  some  of  the 
earhest  literary  remains,  which  most  likely  comes  from  the 
fact  that  the  root-stories  or  myths  were  the  same,  and  dated 
back  to  the  time  when  they  were  one  people.  What  is 
more  natural  than  to  suppose  that  when  these  migrating 
hordes  separated,  each  carried  away  the  early  traditions,  to 
embellish  them  over  again  with  deeds  of  more  recent  heroes 
and  the  scenery  of  their  new  dwelling-places? 

How  many  such  myths  our  English  forefathers  brought  to 
Britain,  we  do  not  know.  It  was  not  until  long  after  they 
had  been  settled  in  their  new  homes  that  any  verses  of  their 
singers  were  written  down ;  and  only  after  it  is  committed 
to  writing  can  we  fairly  begin  the  study  of  literature.  First, 
they  were  obliged  to  seek  less  clumsy  means  for  the  writing 
of  poetry  than  the  side  of  a  flat  bowlder  or  the  wood  of  a 
tree,  and  for  characters  more  generally  understood  than  the 
Runic  letters.  Let  us  see,  then,  how  the  use  of  parchment 
and  our  modern  kind  of  letters  first  came  into  England. 

It  was  hardly  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  after  the  English 
had  conquered  Britain  that  a  Roman  priest,  passing  along 
the  streets  of  his  city  of  Rome,  saw  some  blue-eyed,  hand- 
some youths  exposed  for  sale  in  the  slave-market.  Their 
beauty  attracted  him  so  much  that  he  stopped,  and  asked 
who  these  strangers  were.  "They  are  Angles,"  was  the 
answer.  "  Not  so,"  said  the  priest ;  "  not  Angles,  but 
angels,  for  they  have  angels'  faces,  and  it  becomes  such 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  2$ 

to  be  co-heirs  with  the  angels  in  heaven."  A  few  years 
later,  when  this  same  Roman  priest  had  become  Pope 
Gregory,  and  was  all-powerful  over  the  Roman  empire,  he 
remembered  these  Angles,  or  English,  whose  faces  had  so 
impressed  him,  and  would  not  rest  till  he  had  sent  Christian 
missionaries  to  England  to  snatch  these  people  from 
heathenism.  The  English  had  received  no  teachings  of 
Christianity  from  their  conquered  foes,  the  Britons.  There 
were  only  bloody  instructions  on  both  sides,  and  the  Britons, 
with  pride  in  their  superior  religion,  called  their  conquerors 
"heathen"  and  "barbarians,"  while  the  English  took  fierce 
delight  in  burning  the  religious  houses  and  putting  to  death 
the  holy  men  among  the  Britons.  So  the  religion  which 
taught  peace  and  good  will  among  men  did  not  spread 
from  one  to  the  other  people. 

It  was  in  the  year  596  that  the  ship  sent  by  Pope 
Gregory  landed  the  good  father  Augustine,  with  forty 
monks,  on  the  shores  of  Kent.  Ethelbert,  king  of  Kent, 
heard  of  the  coming  of  this  little  band  of  strange  men, 
clad  in  long  robes,  bearing  aloft  a  silver  cross  with  the 
image  of  Christ  painted  on  a  board.  The  English  monarch, 
not  knowing  what  to  think  of  men  who  came  without 
weapons,  feared  they  were  magicians,  and  sat  under  a 
spreading  tree  to  receive  them ;  because  if  they  tried  to 
use  any  evil  arts  of  witchcraft,  their  spells  would  be  less 
powerful  in  the  free  air.  Instead  of  spears  and  battle-axes, 
these  monks  bore  rolls  of  parchment  written  all  over  with 
letters  unknown  to  the  English  king.  These  parchments 
were  the  Bible,  a  book  of  the  four  Gospels,  a  Psalter,  and  a 
history  of  the  Christian  Martyrs. 

You  will  see  that  the  most  important  book  which  the 
Roman  priests  brought  to  England  was  the  Old  Testament. 
This  was  a  sacred  book  of  the  Hebrew  people,  who  were 
not  related  to  the  Teutonic  peoples,  from  whom  our  Eng- 
lish sprang.  The  Hebrews  belong  to  another  family  of 
mankind,  —  the  Semitic  family ;  and  from  them  we  derive 
our  religion  and  that  wonderful  book,  the  Old  Testament, 
which  is  made  up  of  the  writings  of  their  inspired  men,  their 


^6  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

poets  and  prophets.  And  if  we  believe  that  literature,  like 
everything  else,  grows  rich,  the  greater  the  number  and 
variety  of  things  that  are  added  to  form  it,  then  we  must 
regard  it  as  a  great  good  fortune  to  English  literature  to 
have  this  rare  old  book  of  the  Hebrews  so  early  brought 
to  England. 

I  want  you  to  think  of  the  Old  Testament  now  only  as  a 
great  literary  work,  full  of  wonderful  poetry  and  rich  im- 
agination, coming  from  an  entirely  different  race,  to  be 
grafted  upon  the  rude  poetry  and  traditions  of  this  our 
Northern  people.  Imagine  this  poetry  of  the  South,  with 
its  odors  of  spices,  its  music  of  sounding  harp  and  tinkUng 
cymbal,  its  visions  of  green  pastures  and  still  waters,  all  at 
once  mingled  with  the  songs  of  the  glee  men  who  sang 
at  barbaric  feasts  where  warriors,  clothed  in  skins,  spilled 
mead  to  the  memory  of  dead  heroes,  and  celebrated  the 
glories  of  bloody  warfare.  Think  of  the  unmelodious 
rhythm  of  this  English  singer  blending  all  at  once  with 
the  melody  of  the  harp-strings  that  the  Hebrew  bard  had 
struck  by  the  rivers  of  Judaea,  under  the  glowing  skies  of 
the  Orient.  Picture  how  the  kindling  imagination  of  the 
Northern  poet,  who  had  hardly  known  the  language  of 
tenderness  or  love,  would  be  inspired  by  such  ardent 
strains  as  these,  from  the  Songs  of  the  great  Solomon :  — 

"  Behold,  thou  art  fair,  iny  love, 
Behold,  thou  art  fair. 
Thou  hast  dove's  eyes  within  thy  locks, 
Thy  hair  is  like  a  flock  of  goats 
That  appear  from  Mount  Gilead; 
Thy  lips  are  like  a  thread  of  scarlet, 
And  thy  speech  is  comely. 
Set  me  as  a  seal  upon  thine  heart, 
As  a  seal  upon  thine  arm. 
For  love  is  strong  as  death, 
And  jealousy  is  cruel  as  the  grave. 
The  coals  thereof  arc  coals  of  fire, 
A  most  vehement  flame." 

If  you  are  able  to  imagine  all  this,  you  will  see  what  a  rich 
flood  of  poetry  and  imagery  this  great  book  of  this  Eastern 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  2/ 

people  added  to  the  rude  and  unformed  literature  that 
was  to  be  nursed  under  the  cold,  whitry  skies  of  Northern 
Europe. 

With  these  Hebrew  books  the  Christian  priests  also 
brought  the  Roman  letters,  which  have  ever  since  been  the 
letters  used  by  the  English.  Thus  all  at  once  upon  the 
English  soil  came  the  Christian  Religion,  the  Hebrew 
LrrERATURE,  and  the  written  characters  of  the  Romans, 
—  three  great  gifts  to  the  future  of  our  English  race. 


III. 

The  Beginnings  of  English  Literatihie. 

IN  the  British  Museum  in  London,  where  are  collected  the 
largest  number  of  English  books  to  be  found  together 
in  one  library,  there  is  a  time-stained  and  time-eaten  manu- 
script known  as  the  Beowulf.  This  manuscript  is  probably 
almost  a  thousand  years  old,  although  its  exact  age  is  not 
certain.  Let  everybody  who  speaks  the  English  language 
and  has  a  reverence  for  English  literature  look  at  this  old 
manuscript  with  admiration.  It  is  the  oldest  epic  in  the 
language,  the  oldest  entire  poem  in  our  literature. 

The  Beoiuulf  is  written  in  the  Roman  letters  which  were 
introduced  into  England  by  Christianity,  and  is  in  the  earli- 
est English  spoken  on  the  island  of  Britain.  It  has  been 
several  times  translated  into  modern  English  and  into  other 
languages,  and  there  have  been  many  guesses  as  to  whence 
it  first  came,  when  it  was  written,  and  to  what  people  it 
related.  Some  learned  men  have  thought  it  was  of  German, 
others  of  Scandinavian,  origin  ;  others  hold  that  the  scenery 
and  character  of  the  poem  are  wholly  English.  We  shall 
most  likely  never  know  all  the  facts  about  it,  or  anything 
about  its  unknown  author ;  but  one  thing  seems  certain  to  my 
mind,  —  that  the  traditions  or  story  on  which  it  is  founded 
are  far  older  than  the   hand  that  first  wrote  it.     Why  may 


28  FAMILIAR   TALKS 

not  this  time-encrusted  old  poem  of  Beowulf  have  cele- 
brated the  deeds  of  some  Teutonic  hero  in  a  prehistoric 
past?  When  it  was  first  written  down  by  the  old  poet,  a 
thousand  years  ago,  he  might  easily  have  embellished  an 
older  story  with  incidents  of  his  own  time  and  the  scenery 
of  the  more  modern  dwelling-place  of  the  Teutons,  but  he 
could  not  entirely  lose,  in  telling  the  story,  that  atmosphere 
of  antiquity  which  carries  us  back,  as  we  read  it,  to  the  time 
when  western  Europe  was  filled  with  fens  and  waste  places 
peopled  by  men  living  in  caves  and  lake-dwellings,  with 
whom  the  Teutons  may  have  battled  when  they  were  wan- 
dering through  Europe  before  they  had  fixed  their  homes 
on  the  borders  of  the  North  and  Baltic  Seas, 

But  let  me  tell  you  here  simply  and  briefly  the  story  of 
the  poem.  Beowulf  is  a  chief  of  the  Goths,  —  a  "  deed- 
bold  "  warrior,  the  old  poem  calls  him,  accustomed  all  his 
life  to  war.  At  the  opening  of  the  poem  he  is  going  to  the 
help  of  Hrothgar,  a  chief  of  the  Danes,  who  is  "  old  and 
hairless  "  when  the  poem  begins.  Hrothgar  has  built  a 
great  hall,  or  "  folkstead,"  in  which  he  sits  at  feast  with  his 
warriors.  It  is  probably  much  such  a  hall  as  that  in  which 
the  ancient  gleeman  or  scald  first  sang  the  deeds  of 
Beowulf. 

Imagine  a  long  room,  fifty  by  two  hundred  feet,  with  nave 
and  side  aisles  formed  by  two  rows  of  pillars.  Down  the 
centre  of  the  hall  is  the  great  stone  hearth  on  which  burn 
huge  fires  of  wood.  Between  the  pillars  curtains  of  skins 
or  rudely  woven  tapestry  are  sometimes  hung,  and  then 
they  form  sleeping-places  for  the  warriors.  In  others  of 
these  alcoves  are  set  great  vats,  from  which  the  mead  and  ale 
are  dealt  out  to  the  drinkers.  On  a  raised  dais  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  hall  sits  the  chief  with  his  wife,  at  a  table 
placed  transversely  to  the  long  tables  that  run  lengthwise 
through  the  hall  on  each  side  the  central  hearth.  At  the 
chief's  tables  are  the  most  favored  guests,  or  those  of  high- 
est rank.  The  apartments  of  the  women,  when  there  were 
women  in  the  household,  were  behind  the  dais,  shut  off  by 
thick  hangings.     If  you  will  read  the  description  in  Scott's 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  29 

Ivanhoe  of  the  hall  of  Cedric  the  Saxon,  you  will  see  that 
it  was  a  hall  similar  to  this,  with  appliances  of  a  more 
advanced  civilization,  in  which  the  English  chiefs  held  revel 
and  counsel  as  late  as  the  coming  of  their  Norman  conquer- 
ors. Such  a  hall,  adorned  with  barbaric  pomp,  Hrothgar 
the  Dane  built  for  himself  and  his  warriors,  and  called 
Heoroi.  There  the  gleeman  sang,  the  warriors  feasted,  the 
mead  flowed  in  the  cups,  and  all  went  happily,  until  a  "  grim 
guest  called  Grendel  "  came  up  from  his  dismal  dwelling  in 
neighboring  fens,  —  where  lurked  giants,  dwarfs,  and  all  sorts 
of  misshapen  creatures,  —  and  each  night  seized  and  bore  off 
his  prey  from  among  Hrothgar's  dearest  warriors.  On  this 
account  Beowulf  had  been  summoned  to  subdue  Grendel. 
He  embarked,  therefore,  on  his  "  wide-bosomed  "  ship,  and 
went  to  the  help  of  the  old  thane ;  or,  to  quote  the  most 
poetical  translation  of  the  old  poem,  — 

"  Departed  then  o'er  the  wavy  sea, 
by  wind  impelled, 
the  floater  foamy-necked 
to  a  bird  most  like, 
till  that  about  one  hour 
of  the  second  day 
the  twisted  prow 
had  sailed, 
that  the  voyagers 
saw  land ; 

the  ocean  shores  shine  ; 
mountains  steep ; 
spacious  sea-nesses; 
then  was  the  sea-sailer 
at  the  end  of  his  watery  way." 

When  they  had  landed,  the  "  sea-weary  men  "  marched 
straight  for  the  hall  of  Hrothgar.  Leaning  their  round 
shields  of  hard  wood  against  the  wall,  they  entered.  The 
Danes  asked  who  they  were  and  whence  they  came.  Beowulf 
answered  proudly  that  he  was  a  chieftain,  the  "  board  sharer 
of  the  king  of  the  Goths."  On  this  he  was  made  welcome  ; 
and  as  soon  as  he  was  rested  and  refreshed,  he  entertained 
them  with  tales  of  his  prowess.     "The  women,"  says  the 


30  FAMILIAR   TALKS 

old  poem,  "  liked  the  Goths'  proud  speeches,"  and  the  wife 
of  Hrothgar  came  to  sit  by  her  lord  and  listen. 

At  night  Beowulf  waited  sleepless  for  the  time  when  Gren- 
del,  the  grim  guest,  should  come  to  seize  another  warrior. 
When  he  heard  him  enter,  he  rose  and  grappled  with  him. 
Then  — 

"  Bodily  pain  endured 
the  fell  wretch  ; 
on  his  shoulder  was 
a  deadly  wound  manifest ; 
the  sinews  sprang  asunder, 
the  bone-casings  burst ; " 

and  off  went  Grendel,  leaving  his  hand  and  arm  in  the 
strong  grasp  of  Beowulf.  He  died  on  his  return  to  the 
watery  fens,  where  — 

"  Was  with  blood 
the  surge  boiling, 
the  dire  swing  of  waves 
was  mingled 
hot  with  clotted  l)lood; 
it  welled  with  fatal  gore. 
Grendel  had  dyed  it 
after  he,  joyless, 
in  his  fen-shelter, 
laid  down  his  life." 

After  this  fight  is  over  and  Beowulf  has  been  honored  as 
a  victor,  the  giant  mother  of  Grendel  comes  to  avenge  her 
son,  and  carries  away  at  night  Hrothgar's  favorite  warrior. 
Beowulf  says  consolingly  to  the  bereaved  chieftain,  — 

"  Sorrow  not,  sage  man ; 
better  't  is  for  every  man 
that  he  his  friend  avenge 
than  that  he  greatly  mourn; 
each  of  us  must 
an  end  await 
of  this  world's  life  ; 
let  him  who  can, 
work  high  deeds  ere  death." 

Beowulf  then  goes  to  the  watery  fens  and  attacks  the 
giantess  in  her  lair,  which  still  reeks  with  the  gore  of  Grendel, 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  3 1 

and  finally  returns  with  the  two  heads  of  these  giant  foes. 
Then  he  rests  in  the  great  hall  Heorot. 

"  Rested  him,  the  ample-hearted ; 
the  mansion  towered, 
vaulted,  and  golden-hued, 
the  guest  slept  therein 
until  the  black  raven. 
Heaven's  delight, 
blithe  of  heart,  announced 
the  bright  sun  coming." 

At  the  close  of  the  poem  Beowulf  returns  to  his  home* 
where,  as  his  last  act  of  prowess,  he  slays  a  huge  dragon 
which  devastated  the  land,  and  in  doing  it  receives  his 
death-wound.  Before  his  death  he  divides  among  the 
young  warriors  his  shield,  his  war-shirt  of  "  ringed  iron," 
and  his  other  weapons  of  war.  After  his  death  his  people 
make  a  great  pyre,  put  all  his  riches  on  it,  and  burn  them, 
with  their  chiefs  body. 

This  is  a  bare  outline,  with  scanty  extracts,  from  the  oldest 
entire  poem  which  wears  the  dress  of  our  earliest  English 
speech.  If  from  this  you  have  caught  any  of  its  spirit,  you 
may  be  able  to  fancy,  with  me,  that  there  is  something 
Homeric  about  this  rude  epic.  But  it  is  a  Homer  of  the 
North,  not  of  the  South,  who  sings.  A  blast  of  the  north 
wind  seems  to  blow  through  and  through  these  lines.  The 
beauty  and  grace  of  Homer's  heroes  are  not  seen  in  this 
Gothic  chieftain.  It  is  the  brute  strength  of  the  Northern 
peoples  that  we  find  in  him.  Yet  some  of  the  character- 
istics of  poetry  are  not  lacking  to  this  early  poetry.  Night 
is  called  "  the  shadow-covering  of  creatures ;  "  death  is 
"  the  terrible  life-devourer ; "  the  door  is  the  "  hall's 
mouth."  Although  generally  bare  of  ornament,  and  not 
rich  in  imagination,  it  has  a  few  touches  that  show  the 
genuine  poetic  spirit.  Bare  and  bald  as  it  is,  I  think  you 
may  be  able  to  hear  in  it  the  birth-cry  of  our  English 
Muse,  —  a  true  nursling  of  the  Northern  peoples,  cradled 
under  the  skies  of  a  rugged  and  wintry  clime. 

There  are  a  number  of  specimens  of  early  English  poetry 


32 


FAMILIAR    TALKS 


which  are  almost  as  old  as  the  Beowulf,  and  one  or  two 
fragments  which  may  have  been  committed  to  writing  even 
earlier.  One  such  collection  of  poetry,  called  the  "  Exeter 
Book,"  was  given  by  a  good  bishop  to  the  library  of  Exeter 
Cathedral  some  time  in  the  eleventh  century.  Most  of 
these  poems  are  on  religious  subjects,  although  two  or  three 
of  the  most  poetical  in  the  book  have  an  air  of  even  greater 
antiquity  than  the  Christian  religion  on  English  soil.  Let 
me  give  you  a  few  lines  from  one  of  these  old  poems,  "  The 
Sea-farer,"  which  might  have  been  sung  by  some  old  viking 
in  the  earliest  times  that  the  ships  of  the  Northmen  sailed 
the  seas.     He  begins, — 


"  I  of  myself  can 
a  true  tale  relate, 
my  fortunes  recount, 
how  I  in  days  of  toil, 
a  time  of  hardship, 
oft  suffered 
bitter  breast-cares, 
have  endured, 
proved  in  the  ship, 
strange  mishaps  many. 
The  fell  rolling  of  the  waves 
has  me  oft  drenched, 
an  anxious  night-watch 
at  the  vessel's  prow 
when  on  the  cliff  it  strikes. 
Pierced  with  cold 
were  my  feet, 
bound  with  frost 
with  cold  bonds. 


There  cares  sighed 
hot  round  my  heart ; 
hunger  tore  me  within,  — 
the  sea -wolf's  rage  ; 
that  the  man  knows  not 
to  whom  on  land 
all  falls  out 
most  joyfully; 
how  I  miserable  and  sad 
on  the  ice-cold  sea 
a  winter  passed 
with  exile  traces, 
of  dear  kindred  bereft. 
Hung  o'er  with  icicles, 
the  hail  in  showers  flew, 
where  I  heard  naught 
save  the  sea  roaring, 
the  ice-cold  wave." 


Note  the  atmosphere  of  this  old  poem,  —  the  icy  cold- 
ness, which  almost  makes  one  shiver  in  reading  it,  — 
and  you  will  feel  that  the  unknown  poet  knew  something 
of  the  poetic  art. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  33 


IV. 

On  the   Form  of  Early  English  Poetry,  and  the  Old 
Poem  of  C^DxMOn. 

BEFORE  going  farther,  I  want  you  to  glance  at  the  con- 
struction of  this  early  poetry,  and  to  note  in  what  way 
it  diifers  from  the  poetry  of  other  peoples.  Its  most  marked 
difference  is  its  alliteration,  or  the  use  of  the  same  initial 
letter  to  begin  a  certain  number  of  words  in  a  line  of  poetry. 
The  verses  were  written  like  prose ;  for  a  long  time  they 
were  not  supposed  to  be  cast  in  poetical  form,  as  there  was 
no  use  of  capital  letters  at  the  beginning  of  lines.  There 
was,  however,  a  little  mark,  like  a  colon  or  semicolon,  divid- 
ing the  poem  into  lines ;  and  these  lines  consisted  usually 
of  two  important  and  two  unimportant  syllables.  Of  such 
a  pair  of  lines  the  two  most  important  words  of  the  first, 
and  the  most  important  of  the  second,  had  the  same  ini- 
tial ;  thus :  — 

"  The^rim  ^^'uest 
G^rendel  hight." 

"  An  un-zyinsome  a/ood, 
Ti/ater  stood  under  it. 
The  zi/ater  tcelled  blood  ; 
the  warriors  gazed 
on  the  hoi  /^cart's  blood, 
while  the  /^orn  rung 
a  </oleful  (/eath-note." 

This  system  of  alliteration,  which  was  used  by  the  Scandina- 
vians as  well  as  the  English,  is  the  distinguishing  mark  of  the 
poetry  of  the  North.  Probably  this  use  of  consonant  initials 
was  as  natural  to  these  Northern  peoples  as  the  music  of 
rhythm  and  the  jingling  of  rhyme  were  to  the  nations  of  the 
South  of  Europe,  where  the  language  was  so  rich  in  vowels 
and  so  soft  in  sound.  Certainly  the  use  of  a  recurring  con- 
sonant seems  natural  to  the  poets  of  the  North,  and  we 
shall  see  that  alliteration  is  much  used  by  poets  in  later 

3 


34  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

English,  and  that  it  often  crops  out  in  our  poetry  even  at 
the  present  day. 

The  first  noted  poetical  outcome  of  the  English  Muse 
after  the  land  was  Christianized  was  the  work  of  Caedmon, 
of  whom  very  little  is  known,  except  that  he  lived  near  the 
convent  of  ^^'hitby,  which  was  presided  over  by  the  Abbess 
Hilda,  —  one  of  that  long  line  of  saintly  women  who  are 
found  in  the   early  annals  of  the  Christian  Church. 

This  Ccedmon,  according  to  the  earliest  account,  was 
present  at  some  convivial  party,  where  it  was  the  custom,  as 
from  the  earliest  times  among  all  Teutonic  peoples,  to  sing 
or  recite,  while  the  others  feasted,  and  each  was  called  upon 
in  turn  to  perform  his  part.  But  when  it  came  to  him  to 
sing,  Csedmon  got  up  and  went  out,  he  was  so  ashamed  of 
his  ignorance.  Going  out  into  the  stable  among  the  cattle, 
the  care  of  which  was  that  night  committed  to  him,  he  fell 
asleep  there.  In  his  dream  he  heard  a  voice  saying,  "  Caed- 
mon,  sing  to  me."  He  answered,  "Thou  knowest  I  cannot 
sing."  Then  the  voice  replied,  "  However,  you  shall  sing." 
"What  shall  I  sing?"  asked  Cnsdmon,  meekly.  "Sing 
thou  the  beginning  of  created  things."  And  on  this  he 
began  to  praise  God  in  verse,  and  to  utter  a  long  poem  in 
his  dream.  On  waking  he  was  still  inspired  by  the  influ- 
ence he  had  felt  in  his  sleep,  and  continued  to  sing  the 
Creation,  the  Fall  of  Man,  and  the  whole  story  of  Paradise 
Lost.  Taken  before  the  Abbess  Hilda,  she  persuaded  him 
to  enter  the  monastery,  and  he  lived  and  died  there  in  great 
holiness,  leaving  as  his  work  this  first  English  epic  which 
Christianity  inspired  in  England. 

The  poem  opens  with  a  description  of  the  revolt  of 
Lucifer  in  Heaven,  the  Creation,  the  Temptation  and  Fall, 
and  goes  on  through  nearly  all  the  dramatic  incidents  of 
the  Old  Testament.  Here  are  the  lines  that  follow  the 
account  of  Satan's  conspiracy  and  rebellion  :  — 

"  Then  was  God  angry, 
and  wroth   with  that  host 
whom  he  erst  had  lioncred 
with  beauty  and  glory; 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  35 

he  formed  for  these  false  ones 

an  exile  home, 

anguish  for  reward, 

the  groans  of  hell, 

hard  punishment; 

bade  the  torture-house 

await  the  victims." 

After  he  has  banished  Lucifer  and  his  rebels,  God 
creates  the  earth  and  man  to  re-people  the  sky,  empty  of 
the  angels  he  has  banished  to  hell.  Of  the  earth  the  old 
poem  says,  — 

"  There  had  not  here  as  yet 
save  cavern  shade 
aught  been ; 
but  this  wide  abyss 
stood  deep  and  dim, 
strange  to  its  Lord, 
idle  and  useless." 

Satan's  speech  of  discontent  has  a  shadowy  likeness  to 
Milton's  Satan :  — 

"  '  Why  shall  I  toil,'  said  he. 
'To  me  it  is  no  whit  needful 
to  have  a  superior. 
I  can  with  my  hands 
as  many  wonders  work ; 
I  have  great  power  to  form 
a  diviner  home, 
higher  in  heaven. 
Why  shall  I  for  his  favor  serve? 
bend  to  him  in  such  vassalage  ? 
I  may  be  a  god  as  he. 
Stand  by  me,  strong  associates, 
who  will  not  fail  me  in  this  strife. 
Heroes  strong  in  mood, 
who  have  chosen  me  for  chief, 
renowned  warriors ! 
I  may  be  their  chieftain, 
sway  in  this  realm. 
To  me  it  seemeth  not  right 
that  I  in  aught  need  cringe 
to  God  for  any  good. 
I  will  no  longer  be  his  vassal.' " 


36  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

The  following  lines  are  from  the  description  of  the  deluge  : 

"The  Lord  sent 
rain  from  heaven, 
and  also  amply  let 
the  well  brooks 
throng  on  the  world 
from  every  vein. 
The  torrent  streams 
dark-sounded; 
the  sea  rose 
o'er  their  shore-walls. 
Stern  and  strong  was  he 
who  o'er  the  waters  swayed, 
covered  and  overwhelmed 
the  sinful  sons 
of  middle  earth 
with  the  dark  waves." 

Caedmon  flourished  in  the  seventh  century,  somewhere  in 
the  period  from  65  7  to  6S0.  His  successors  were  a  line  of 
worthy  monks,  who  for  centuries  kept  alive  in  monasteries 
the  faint  flame  of  learning  and  literature.  In  the  early 
part  of  the  eighth  century  appeared  the  first 
English  biography,  that  of  Bishop  Wilfrid,  who 
built  York  Minster,  written  by  his  pious  chaplain,  Eddius ; 
about  this  time,  too,  came  the  first  autobiography  known 
to  our  literature,  written  by  Bishop  Egwin.  Text-books 
in  the  various  sciences  began  to  appear.  Aldhelm,  a 
learned  monk  of  the  seventh  century,  was  both  a  musician 
and  a  poet,  and  assumed  the  garb  and  character  of  a  glee- 
man,  singing  his  verses  in  English,  that  it  might  thus  attract 
and  teach  the  people.  Unfortunately,  for  a  very  long 
time  the  language  of  books  and  of  learning  was  Latin,  and 
the  good  every-day  speech  of  our  forefathers,  the  homely 
English,  was  crowded  out  of  use.  This  was  partly  because 
English  was  not  much  esteemed,  and  partly  because  Latin 
was  the  language  of  scholars  all  over  Europe  ;  and  being  thus 
a  universal  tongue,  it  was  the  most  convenient  one  for 
authors.  But  it  was  a  misfortune  for  the  English  language 
and  literature  that  a  foreign  speech  should  for  centuries 
have  held  such  a  sway  over  the  speech  of  the  people. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  37 


V. 

Telling  of  the  Venerable  Beda  and  of  King  Alfred  the 
Good,  and  of  the  Work  they  did  in  Literature. 

BEDA,  a  good  and  pious  priest,  whose  epitaph  gave  him 
the  name  of  "  The  Venerable  Beda,"  comes 
next  to  Caedmon  as  one  of  the  great  writers  of  this 
early  time.  Like  the  rest  of  his  learned  brethren,  he  wrote 
almost  wholly  in  Latin.  His  best-known  work  is  a  church 
history  of  England.  He  wrote  also  text-books  on  natural 
philosophy,  grammar,  astronomy,  music,  and  many  othei 
branches,  which  would  be  very  amusing  in  this  age  of  new- 
fashioned  school-books  and  modern  discoveries.  All  these 
were  in  Latin ;  but  in  his  last  days  he  began  the  translation 
of  the  Gospels  into  English,  and  died  just  as  he  finished 
dictating  the  translation  of  Saint  John's  Gospel.  There  is  a 
beautiful  account  of  his  death  by  his  favorite  scholar,  Cuth- 
bert,  who  wrote  down  from  his  master's  dictation  this  Eng- 
lish version  of  a  portion  of  the  New  Testament.  As  they 
drew  near  the  last  chapters  of  John,  Beda  ordered  Cuthbert 
to  write  with  all  speed  ;  but  his  breath  came  so  painfully  that 
the  good  old  priest  had  to  pause  frequently  in  his  dictation. 
As  the  day  drew  near  its  close,  the  writer  said,  ''  Most  dear 
master,  there  is  yet  one  chapter  wanting :  do  you  think  it 
troublesome  to  be  asked  any  more  questions?"  He  an- 
swered :  "  It  is  no  trouble  ;  take  the  pen,  make  ready,  and 
write  fast:'  In  the  evening  Cuthbert  said  :  "  Dear  master, 
there  is  yet  one  sentence  unwritten."  Beda  said  :  "  Write 
it  quickly."  Soon  after  the  boy  said  :  "  It  is  written." 
«  It  is  well,"  answered  Beda  ;  and  sitting  upright  on  the  floor 
of  his  cell,  he  breathed  his  last  in  a  song  of  rejoicing. 

A  little  more  than  a  century  after  the  death  of  Beda, 
Alfred  the  Great  was  born,  —  one  of  the  best  and 
noblest  of  English  kings,  who  for  the  work  he  did     **®~^°^ 
in  literature  alone,  deserves  a  high  place  in  our  remem- 


38  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

brance.  He  did  all  he  could  to  make  the  spoken  language 
of  England  also  its  written  language,  when  no  one  but  a 
king  could  so  easily  have  set  the  fashion  of  putting  liter- 
ature into  an  unfashionable  garb,  and  so  have  drawn 
others  into  following  it. 

It  is  said  that  Alfred,  at  the  age  of  twelve,  could  not 
read,  but  that  his  stepmother  one  day  showed  him  and  his 
brother  a  book  of  poetry,  saying,  "  Whichever  of  you  shall 
soonest  learn  this  volume  shall  have  it  for  his  own." 
Attracted  by  the  beautiful  colored  letters,  Alfred  mastered 
the  book,  and  so  his  love  for  literature  began.  When  he 
became  king,  although  his  hands  were  always  full  of  affairs 
of  government,  to  say  nothing  of  wars  constantly  carried 
on  against  him  by  the  Danes,  he  still  made  book-making 
one  of  his  pursuits,  and  kept  several  literary  men  in  his 
court,  carrying  out  his  plans  and  aiding  him  in  his  writing. 
An  account  of  a  voyage  along  the  coast  of  Norway,  and 
another  from  Denmark  through  the  Baltic  Sea,  which 
Alfred  wrote  down  from  the  lips  of  the  narrators,  are  the 
earliest  voyages  written  in  English.  One  of  the  most 
famous  works  of  Alfred  was  the  translation  of  The  Conso- 
lation  of  Philosophy,  a  book  written  by  the  Latin  writer 
Boethius  when  he  was  shut  up  in  prison.  It  is  a  series  of 
conversations  between  the  Mind,  cast  down  by  imprison- 
ment, and  Wisdom,  who  plays  the  consoler,  and  in  doing  so, 
utters  many  wise  maxims  that  are  as  good  to  read  to-day  as 
ever  they  were.  In  this  translation  are  many  fables,  which 
Alfred  has  told  in  the  simplest  words,  as  we  should  tell  a 
story  to  a  little  child,  — which  proves  that  Alfred  hit  on  the 
true  way  of  interesting  the  chiUllike  and  uncultured  people. 
This  is  the  way  he  tells  the  story  of  Orpheus  and 
Eurydice  :  — 

"  Happy  is  the  man  who  can  behold  the  clear  fount  of  the 
highest  good,  and  can  put  away  from  himself  the  darkness  of 
his  mind.  We  will  now  from  old  fables  relate  to  thee  a  story. 
It  happened  formerly  that  there  was  a  harper  in  a  country  called 
Thrace,  which  was  in  Greece.  This  harper  was  inconceivably 
good.  His  name  was  Orpheus.  He  had  a  very  excellent  wife,  who 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  39 

was  called  Eurydice.  Then  began  men  to  say  concerning  the 
harper  that  he  could  harp  so  that  the  wood  moved,  the  stones 
stirred  themselves  at  the  sound,  and  wild  beasts  would  run 
thereto  and  stand  as  if  they  were  tame, —  so  still  that  though  men 
or  hounds  pursued  them  they  shunned  them  not.  Then  said  they 
that  the  harper's  wife  should  die,  and  her  soul  should  be  led  to 
hell.  Then  should  the  harper  become  so  sorrowful  that  he  could 
not  remain  among  men,  but  frequented  the  wood  and  sat  on  the 
mountains  both  day  and  night,  weeping  and  harping  so  that 
the  woods  shook  and  the  rivers  stood  still,  and  no  hart  shunned 
any  lion,  and  no  hare  any  hound,  nor  did  cattle  know  any  hatred 
or  fear  of  others  for  pleasure  of  the  sound.  Then  it  seemed 
to  the  harper  that  nothing  in  the  world  pleased  him.  Then 
thought  he  that  he  would  seek  the  gods  of  hell  and  endeavor 
to  allure  them  with  his  harp,  and  pray  that  they  should  give  him 
back  his  wife.  When  he  came  thither,  then  there  should  come 
to  him  the  dog  of  hell,  whose  name  was  Cerberus ;  he  should 
have  three  heads,  and  began  to  wag  his  tail  and  play  with  him 
for  his  harping.  .  .  .  Then  he  went  farther,  until  he  met  the 
fierce  godesses  whom  the  common  people  call  Parcas,  of  whom 
they  say  that  they  know  no  respect  for  any  man,  but  punish 
every  man  according  to  his  deeds.  Then  began  he  to  implore 
their  mercy.  Then  began  they  to  weep  with  him.  Then  went 
he  farther,  and  all  the  inhabitants  of  hell  ran  to  him,  and  led 
him  to  their  king;  and  all  began  to  speak  with  him,  and  to  pray 
that  which  he  prayed.  .  .  .  And  all  the  punishments  of  hell 
were  suspended  while  he  harped  before  the  king.  When  he 
long  and  long  had  harped,  then  spoke  the  king  of  the  inhabi- 
tants of  hell,  and  said :  '  Let  us  give  this  man  his  wife,  for  he 
has  earned  her  by  his  harping.'  He  then  commanded  him  that 
he  should  well  observe  that  he  never  looked  backwards  after  he 
departed  thence,  and  said  if  he  looked  backwards  he  should 
lose  the  woman.  But  men  can  with  great  difficulty,  if  at  all, 
restrain  Love  !  Well-a-way!  What!  Orpheus  led  his  wife  till 
he  came  to  the  boundary  of  light  and  darkness.  When  he 
came  forth  into  the  light,  then  looked  he  behind  his  back  to- 
wards the  woman.  Then  was  she  immediately  lost  to  him. 
This  fable  teaches  every  man  who  desires  to  fly  the  darkness  of 
hell  and  to  come  to  the  light  of  the  true  good,  that  he  look  not 
about  him  to  his  old  vices." 

By  such  stories,  so  simply  told,  and  by  many  translations 
from  the  Bible  and  other  great  books,  did  Alfred  seek  to 
educate  his  subjects. 


40  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

There  were,  however,  many  influences  hostile  to  literary 
work  in  his  reign.  But  no  matter  what  disturbances  went 
on  outside,  within  the  quiet  convent  walls  the  monks  wrote 
and  copied  the  books  which  keep  the  thread  of  history 
through  that  past  time.  It  was  the  habit  in  both  British 
and  English  monasteries  to  keep  the  record  of  all  the 
events  of  the  year  in  a  chronicle,  the  form  of  which  was 
modelled  upon  the  Hebrew  chronicles.  Every  year  the 
monks  of  different  religious  houses  would  meet  and  com- 
pare these  annals,  and  then  form  a  general  record.  One 
of  the  oldest  of  these,  known  as  the  "Anglo-Saxon  Chro- 
nicle," was  edited  by  Alfred  and  his  scribes,  and  is  valuable 
as  history. 

Alfred  died  just  on  the  brink  of  the  tenth  century. 
After  him  there  is  no  very  great  name  for  many  years. 
There  are  men  of  learning  and  a  few  unknown  poets,  but 
little  has  come  down  to  us  in  English,  or  of  English  origin. 
The  invasions  of  the  Danes  interrupted  literary  labor,  and 
early  in  the  eleventh  century  the  Danes  conquered 
England,  and  King  Cnut,  or  Canute,  took  the 
throne.  But  the  great  event  in  English  history  in  this 
eleventh  century  which  had  an  effect  on  language  and  lit- 
erature was  the  Norman  Conquest,  of  which  I  shall  tell 
you  in  the  next  Talk. 


VI. 

Telling  how  Williaat  the  Norman  came  to  the 
Conquest  of  England. 

I  HAVE  already  spoken  of  the  invasions  of  the  Danes, 
who  for  so  many  years  were  attempting  the  conquest 
of  England.  You  can  guess  something  of  their  power  and 
activity  from  the  fact  that  they  placed  a  king  on  the  Eng- 
lish throne  in  the  early  part  of  the  eleventh  century.     Re- 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  4I 

member  that  these  Danes,  with  Swedes  and  Norwegians, 
made  the  Scandinavian  division  of  the  Teutonic  peoples, 
and  that  they  are  thus  close  cousins  by  race  to  the  English, 
In  the  ninth,  tenth,  and  eleventh  centuries  these  Scandi- 
navians showed  such  a  wonderful  spirit  of  adventure,  and 
their  deeds  had  so  great  an  effect  on  history,  and  hence  on 
literature,  that  I  cannot  make  my  story  complete  without 
giving  a  brief  sketch  of  them. 

In  spreading  out  from  Denmark  to  Sweden  and  Nor- 
way, the  Scandinavians  (whom  I  will  hereafter  call  by  their 
shorter  name  of  Northmen)  had  become,  by  force  of  their 
position  on  peninsulas  girt  about  by  Northern  seas,  the 
most  daring  sailors  in  the  world.  In  the  year  876  a  band 
of  these  Northmen,  coming  principally  from  Denmark,  but 
swelling  their  number  as  they  went  along  with  a  mixture  of 
Jutes  and  Angles,  who  joined  them  readily  in  this  maraud- 
ing march,  went  to  invade  France.  Led  by  a  famous 
Danish  chieftain,  Rolf,  also  called  Rou  and  RoUo,  they 
sailed  up  the  river  Seine,  devastating  the  country  all  along 
its  borders,  and  prepared  to  besiege  Paris.  The  French 
made  treaties  with  these  powerful  invaders,  gave  Rolf  a 
princess  of  royal  blood  to  wife,  induced  him  to  be  baptized 
a  Christian,  and  gave  him  a  tract  ot  land  on  the  borders 
of  the  English  Channel,  since  called  Normandy,  from  these 
Northmen,  or  Normans.  They  spread  over  their  new  home, 
marrying  with  the  natives,  increasing  rapidly  in  numbers, 
and  adopting  the  language  of  the  people  among  whom 
they  lived.  In  a  century  they  had  almost  forgotten  whence 
they  came  and  the  language  they  spoke  at  their  coming, 
using  wholly  the  Ro?nance  tongue,  which  afterwards  became 
the  modern  French. 

Meanwhile  the  Danes,  overrunning  England,  had  put 
King  Cnut  in  power.  He  seems  to  have  been  a  good  king, 
who  made  fair  laws,  for  those  days.  He  was  something  of 
a  poet  too,  and  a  little  song  of  his  is  still  preserved,  which 
he  made  one  day  as  he  was  going  down  the  river  Ouse  in  a 
boat,  and  heard  from  the  open  windows  of  the  monastery 
the  monks  singing  their  hymns  ;  — 


42  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

"Merrily  sang  the  monkes  in  l'",ly, 
When  Cnut  the  king  rowed  by; 
Row,  knightes,  near  the  land, 
And  hear  ye  the  monkes'  song." 

When  Cnut  got  the  throne,  the  EngUsh  king,  whose 
unfortunate  name  in  history  is  Ethelred  the  Unready,  fled 
to  Normandy,  where  the  descendants  of  Rolf  were  flourish- 
ing. Probably  the  reason  he  went  there  was  because  his 
wife.  Queen  Emma,  was  a  Norman  woman,  a  great-grand- 
daughter of  the  famous  Rolf.  And  the  son  of  this  un- 
fortunate Ethelred  and  Emma,  the  gracious  young  prince 
Edward,  exiled  from  his  English  home  during  the  reign  of 
Cnut,  spent  all  his  youth  in  the  Norman  court,  spoke  its 
language,  and  took  on  the  manners  and  polish  of  its  best 
society,  —  esteemed  in  those  days  a  very  polished  and 
elegant  society  indeed.  For  you  must  understand  that  the 
rough  Normans  who  came  to  Northern  France  one  hundred 
and  fifty  years  before  the  time  of  Prince  Edward,  had 
been  wonderfully  improved  during  this  lapse  of  time.  The 
French  among  whom  they  settled  had  imparted  to  them 
their  civilization.  Southern  Europe,  especially  Italy,  had 
sent  to  them  pious  pilgrims,  who  carried  learning  and  re- 
ligion to  foreign  lands.  These  wandering  scholars  had 
been  hospitably  received  in  Normandy,  and  one  of  them, 
the  celebrated  Lanfranc,  had  established  a  school  there, 
which  became  one  of  the  most  famous  in  Europe. 

Another  people,  who  greatly  aided  in  the  spread  of  learn- 
ing in  Europe,  were  the  Arabs,  who  had  overrun  Italy,  con- 
quered a  large  part  of  Spain,  and  m.ade  incursions  into 
France  during  the  century  before  Rolf  came  to  Normandy. 
These  Arabs  were  far  in  advance  of  the  Europeans  in  all 
kinds  of  knowledge.  They  had  instituted  splendid  libraries 
in  Spain,  had  opened  schools  there,  and  their  systems  of 
teaching  had  an  influence  all  over  Europe.  These  Arabians, 
too,  were  great  story-tellers,  —  the  Arabian  Nii:;hts'  Enter- 
tainments bears  testimony  to  that,  —  and  among  them  were 
also  musical  poets.  When  the  Norman  mercenaries,  follow- 
ing tlieir  taste  for  adventure,  went  into  Southern  Europe  to 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  43 

help  the  Italians  in  battle  against  these  Arabs,  they  must, 
even  in  so  rough  a  meeting,  have  imbibed  some  of  the  cul- 
ture of  their  foes.  And  in  the  mingling  of  all  these  influ- 
ences which  had  touched  him  on  all  sides,  it  is  certain  that 
the  Norman,  who  was  always  hospitable  to  new  ideas,  and 
held  fast  to  all  that  came  to  him,  either  of  an  intellectual 
or  a  material  kind,  must  have  been  very  much  improved 
and  polished.  So  when  young  Prince  Edward,  son  of 
Ethelred  and  Emma,  and  consequently  descended  on  one 
side  from  Alfred  the  Great,  and  on  the  other  from  Rolf  the 
Dane,  was  made  king  of  England,  after  the  death  of  Cnut 
and  his  sons,  he  took  back  to  the  English  court  the  lan- 
guage and  the  manners  in  which  he  had  been  bred  in  the 
Norman  court. 

With  this  Edward,  known  as  Edward  the  Confessor,  the 
first  Norman  influence  came  to  England,  although  it  was 
not  Edward  who  fixed  and  confirmed  it  there.  It  was  a 
much  greater  and  stronger  man  than  Edward  the  Confessor, 
—  no  other  than  the  great  Duke  of  Normandy,  whom  we 
know  best  as  William  the  Conqueror.  William  claimed  that 
Edward  had  promised  that  his  successor  on  the  English 
throne  should  be  the  Norman  duke  ;  and  the  story  is  also 
told  that  ^Villiam  had  extorted  an  unwilling  promise  from 
Harold,  King  Edward's  brother-in-law,  that  he  would  favor 
the  Norman  claim.  As  soon  as  Edward  the  Confessor  died, 
however,  Harold  took  the  throne.  But  Duke  William  was 
on  the  alert  to  urge  his  claim.  A  man  like  a  lion  was  this 
William  of  Normandy,  —  so  strong  and  so  brave  that  we  can 
but  admire  him.  In  a  very  few  months  after  Edward's 
death  he  had  crossed  the  English  Channel  with  his  troops, 
beaten  the  army  of  Harold  in  the  battle  of  Hastings,  in 
which  Harold  was  slain,  and  had  made  himself  the  crowned 
king  of  England,  —  the  first  of  a  long  line  of  Norman 
kings.  This  Norman  victory  had  an  influence  on  literature 
which  ranks  as  an  event  second  in  succession  and  impor- 
tance only  to  the  coming  of  Augustine  and  his  monks  with 
their  parchments  of  the  Scriptures. 

As  the  knights  of  William  the    Conqueror   spurred    to 


44  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

battle  upon  the  field  of  Hastings,  the  king's  minstrel, 
Taillefer,  who  could  fight  all  the  better,  doubtless,  because 
he  could  sing,  made  the  English  welkin  ring  with 
the  strains  of  the  Song  of  Roland,  which  cele- 
brated the  deeds  of  Charlemagne's  heroes  against  Arabian 
foes.  As  the  song  rang  gayly  from  the  minstrel's  lips,  the 
arrow  of  a  foeman  silenced  him  forever.  In  this  musical 
war-cry,  so  suddenly  hushed  in  death,  the  new  literary  in- 
fluence first  made  itself  heard  in  England. 


VII. 

On  Liter.\ture  under  the  Normans,  especially  in  the 
Reign  of  Henry  H.  ;  and  the  Legends  of  Arthur 
AND  HIS  Knights  of  the  Round  Table. 

NOTWITHSTANDING  the  pious  labors  of  monks,  be- 
ginning with  the  venerable  Beda,  there  were  few 
books  in  England  at  the  time  of  the  Norman  conquest,  or 
indeed  for  years  after.  When  the  Norman  came  to  France 
he  brought  with  him  little  that  could  be  called  literature. 
Romance,  the  spoken  language  of  Normandy,  was  hardly  a 
written  language  in  William's  time.  However,  the  fact  that 
a  language  is  not  a  written  language  does  not  prevent  the 
making  of  songs  in  the  vulgar  tongue  or  the  singing  of 
them  by  the  people's  minstrels.  It  was  not  long  after  the 
coming  of  the  Normans  to  England  that  all  sorts  of  min- 
strels swarmed  in  France  and  Germany,  —  Trouveres,  Trou- 
badours, Jongleurs,  Minnesingers,  all  singing  like  the  lark, 
until  France,  and  especially  the  South  of  France,  was  like 
a  sky  full  of  birds.  Thus,  although  the  Norman  did  not 
bring  many  books  when  he  came  to  England,  he  brought 
an  impetus  to  poetry,  and  the  form  in  which  to  clothe  it. 
You  w'ill  recognize  that  the  spirit  inherent  in  these  de- 
scendants of  the  Northmen  was  akin  to  that  which  had 
inspired  the  heroic  lines  of  Beowulf,  acted  upon  by  the 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  45 

refining  forces  it  had  met  in  France  and  Southern  Europe. 
But  this  spirit  had  now  taken  upon  itself  a  new  form. 
The  verses,  without  rhyme  or  rhythmic  grace,  in  which  the 
Teutonic  gleeman  had  sung  the  high  deeds  of  his  fathers, 
were  not  heard  among  Norman  singers.  Poetry  put  itself 
into  melodious  numbers,  and  the  soft  consonances  of 
rhyme  took  the  place  of  the  old-fashioned  alliteration  of 
the  earliest  age  of  English  poetry. 

It  is  to  the  credit  of  the  Norman  kings  that  they  were 
always  favorable  to  learning.     William  the  Con-     ^Qgg 
queror,  although  his  reign  was  busy  with  the  broils        to 
and  intrigues  which  engaged  a  king  struggling  to 
keep  his  hold  on  a  new  kingdom,  was  never  deaf  to  the 
claim  of   letters.     As  soon  as  he  was   fairly  at  home  in 
England,  he  brought  over  the  good  Lanfranc,  the  Italian 
scholar  who  had  founded  the  famous  school  in  Normandy, 
and  made  him  Archbishop  of  Canterbury.     William's  son, 
Henry  I.,  bore  the  surname  of  Bcauclerc,  "  Fine  Scholar  ;  " 
and  there  were  few  princes  of  the   Norman  line  in   En- 
gland who  did  not  feel,  or  pretend  to  feel,  an  interest  in 
literature. 

The  history  of  England  was  still  kept  up  in  Latin.  The 
first  great  successor  of  Beda  and  Alfred  in  this  field  was 
Ordericus  Vitalis,  who  brought  English  history  down  to  the 
year  1141;  following  him  came  William  of  Malmesbury, 
who  told  the  story  of  the  English  from  their  landing  in 
Britain  to  the  reign  of  King  Stephen ;  and  then  came 
Henry  of  Huntingdon,  who  ended  his  work  about  the 
time  Henry  II.  came  to  the  throne. 

In    the    reign    of    Henry    II.    literature    took    a  great 
stride    forward.      There    were    many    events   that     ^g^ 
helped  to  this.     The    king  himself  was  a  patron       to 
of  literary  men,  and  his  queen,  Eleanor,  had  come 
from  the  very  home  and  birthplace   of  the  Troubadours, 
and  could  herself  make  songs  such  as  the  singers  of  that 
day  sang  to  their  gay  lutes.     There  had  been  two  crusades 
to  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  and  the  united  armies  of  Europe 
had  brought  back  from  the  East  many  refinements  of  taste 


46  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

and  many  poetical  ideas  new  to  them.  The  system  of 
chivalry,  which  did  much  to  polish  manners,  was  the  ruling 
force  in  society ;  and  it  was  this  spirit  that  found  expression 
in  the  lays  of  the  Troubadour,  and  exalted  the  office  of  the 
singer  till  knights  and  princes  were  proud  to  be  called 
verse-makers.  With  these  influences  to  foster  literature  it 
is  not  surprising  that  a  number  of  remarkable  names 
should  appear  in  England  in  this  reign. 

Among  the  first  of  these  names  is  that  of  Geoffrey  of 
Monmouth,  who  was  not  English,  but  Welsh,  and  belonged 
to  the  old  British  nation,  so  long  since  driven  to  Wales  by 
the  English  advance  into  British  territory.  These  Britons 
had  imparted  very  little  to  their  English  conquerors,  al- 
though, as  I  have  told  you  previously,  they  had  a  literature 
of  which  they  were  justly  proud. 

The  Welsh  felt  less  bitterness  against  the  Norman  than 
his  ancestors  had  felt  against  the  English,  and  the  tendency 
of  Norman  rule  had  been  to  break  down  the  barriers  which 
kept  all  knowledge  of  British  history  and  poetry  out  of 
England,  and  thus  to  bring  a  fresh  element  into  our  litera- 
ture. In  1 147  this  Geoffrey  of  Monmoutli,  who  was  a 
priest  living  under  the  patronage  of  the  English  court, 
wrote  a  history  of  his  people  which  is  very  interesting  in- 
deed. Geoffrey  says  he  was  not  the  author  of  this  book, 
but  that  it  was  a  translation  of  the  ancient  Kymric  tongue, 
which  he,  like  all  true  Britons,  could  read  and  speak,  and 
that  it  was  one  of  the  old  books  which  the  Welsh  had 
carried  over  to  Brittany  when  some  of  them  fled  there 
after  the  English  invaded  England.  This  book  is  very  in- 
teresting to  us,  because  in  it  we  find  the  history  of  the 
famous  King  Arthur  and  his  prophet  Merlin,  and  an  account 
of  how  the  order  of  the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table  was 
founded. 

The  history  begins  by  telling  us  that  the  race  of  Britons 
began  with  Brutus,  a  great-grandson  of  ^neas  of  Troy, 
who,  after  the  manner  of  his  famous  grandsire,  took  his 
household  gods  and  went  to  found  a  city  in  the  island  of 
Albion.     After  slaying  a  number  of  giants  he  found  there, 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  47 

the  chief  of  whom  was  Gogmagog,  Brutus  built  the  city  of 
Troynovant  (New  Troy),  which  is  now  London,  and  began 
the  race  of  the  Britons.  From  him  in  hneal  order  came 
King  Arthur,  greatest  and  best  of  British  kings. 

There  is  nowadays  a  great  deal  of  doubt  about  the 
reality  of  King  Arthur,  and  many  regard  him  merely  as  a 
myth  of  the  old  historians  or  the  later  poets.  But  al- 
though we  may  be  sure  that  the  story  about  Brutus,  and, 
indeed,  most  of  the  accounts  of  Arthur,  are  untrue,  still 
I  do  not  see  why  there  may  not  once  have  been  a  noble 
king  among  the  Britons  called  Arthur,  who  ruled  wisely 
and  well,  nor  why  some  of  the  deeds  told  by  Geoffrey 
may  not  have  been  founded  on  fact.  At  any  rate,  Geoffrey 
was  for  years  believed  in  as  an  undoubted  historian,  and 
from  his  time  Arthur  and  Merlin  and  the  Knights  of  the 
Round  Table  have  figured  largely  in  literature,  even  to 
the  present  day,  when  we  find  them  in  so  many  of  the 
modern  poets. 

Two  other  remarkable  men  of  Henry  II. 's  time  were 
also  Welsh  by  birth,  —  Walter  Map  and  Gerald  de  Barri. 
They  were  both  priests,  as  were  most  literary  men  in  these 
early  days ;  but  Map  was  a  shrewd,  outspoken  man,  and  a 
clever  writer,  who  did  not  let  his  office  blind  his  judgment, 
and  he  had  a  very  sharp  pen  to  use  against  the  abuses  of  the 
Church.  Some  of  the  songs,  which  are  known  as  "  songs 
of  Walter  Map,"  are  the  first  protests  in  England  against 
religious  corruption,  which  we  shall  see  wax  strong  in  the 
time  of  Wycliffe  and  the  Reformers  two  hundred  years 
later.  Map  also  wrote  a  sort  of  court  journal,  which  gives 
us  little  peeps  into  that  old  time,  showing  it  as  if  the 
people  in  it  were  still  alive.  But  his  great  work  in  Htera- 
ture  was  his  addition  to  the  Romances  of  the  Round  Table, 
which  had  now  begun  to  be  current  in  Europe  and  to  draw 
to  them  other  romances,  which  Brittany,  a  country  so  rich 
in  fiction,  was  ready  to  add  to  the  story  of  her  favorite 
King  Arthur.  The  characters  of  Launcelot  du  Lake,  Tris- 
tram and  Isoud,  Galahad,  the  Quest  for  the  Holy  Grail, 
and  many  other  incidents,  which  religion  and  chivalry  had 


48  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

interwoven  with  the  original  legends  of  Arthur  and  his 
knights,  were  spreading  over  Europe.  It  was  natural  that 
Walter  Map,  himself  of  Kymric  race,  should  have  found 
delight  in  the  story  of  the  British  Arthur.  He  bound  in 
one  the  scattered  stories,  bringing  them  together  on  Eng- 
lish soil,  and  making  them  absolutely  the  property  of  English 
literature.  Walter  Map  was  preceded  by  two  Trouveres,  one 
of  whom,  Geoffrey  Gaimar,  put  the  History  of  Geoffrey  of 
Monmouth  into  metre  ;  and  the  other,  who  was  named  Wace, 
also  wrote  the  same  history  in  verse,  in  a  much  better 
fashion,  and  presented  it,  when  done,  to  Queen  Eleanor. 
And  from  the  time  of  these  three,  Map,  Gaimar,  and  Wace, 
to  that  of  Alfred  Tennyson,  the  names  of  Arthur  and  his 
knights  are  familiar  to  all  readers  of  English  poetry.  A 
literary  contemporary  of  Map,  Gerald  de  Barri  (also  known 
asGiraldus  Cambrensis,  or  Gerald  of  Wales),  seems  to  have 
been  bright  and  witty,  and  although  he  wrote  in  Latin, 
used  it  in  an  easy,  familiar  style,  like  one  who  writes  in  his 
spoken  language.  He  himself  said  :  "  Since  words  only 
give  expression  to  what  is  in  the  mind,  and  man  is  endowed 
with  the  gift  of  speech  only  for  the  purpose  of  uttering  his 
thoughts,  what  can  be  greater  folly  than  to  lock  up  and 
conceal  things  we  wish  to  be  clearly  understood,  in  a  tissue 
of.  unintelligible  phrases  and  sentences  ?  Is  it  not  better, 
as  Seneca  says,  to  be  dumb  than  to  speak  so  as  not  to  be 
understood?"  But  alas!  for  us  who  would  like  to  read 
Gerald  in  his  native  tongue,  he,  as  well  as  all  the  other 
writers,  except  the  Trouveres  of  whom  I  have  just  spoken, 
wrote  in  Latin,  and  the  thirteenth  century  opens  before  we 
hear  any  great  utterance  in  English  speech  after  the  time 
the  Normans  set  foot  in  England. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERA  TURE.  49 


VIII. 

On  the  Struggles  of  the  English  Speech  to  hold  its 

OWN  AGAINST  THE   NORMAN  ;     OF  OlD   BaLLADS,  ESPECIALLY 

THE  Robin  Hood  Ballads;   the  Old  Geste  of  Robin 
Hood  and  Guy  of  Gisborne. 

YOU  may  imagine  how  our  sturdy  English  speech  was 
struggling  all  this  time  to  keep  from  being  entirely 
driven  out  of  the  land  by  its  fashionable  rivals.  The  lan- 
guage of  the  Church  and  of  letters  was  Latin ;  that  of  the 
court,  the  Troubadours  and  the  Trouveres,  was  Norman- 
French.  Yet  the  common  people  held  stoutly  to  their 
mother-tongue.  In  those  parts  where  the  conquerors  were 
most  thickly  settled  it  was  often  crowded  to  the  wall ;  but 
in  provinces  more  remote,  where  the  Norman  had  not 
made  his  way,  the  English  language  was  fairly  spoken.  It 
was  not  easy  to  uproot  from  the  land  the  grand  old  speech 
brought  to  England  by  our  forefathers.  It  was  one  of  the 
grievances  of  the  Englishman  that  his  speech  was  neglected 
for  the  more  fashionable  Norman.  You  remember,  if  you 
have  read  "  Ivanhoe,"  what  Wamba  the  witless  says  to 
Gurth  the  swineherd  as  they  are  watching  the  swine. 

"  How  call  you  those  grunting  beasts  running  about  on 
their  four  legs?"  demanded  Wamba. 

"Swine,  Fool,  swine,"  said  the  herd;  "every  fool 
knows  that." 

"And  swine  is  good  Saxon,"  said  the  jester.  "But  how 
call  you  the  sow  when  she  is  flayed,  and  drawn  and  quar- 
tered, and  hung  up  by  the  heels,  like  a  traitor?" 

"  Pork,"  answered  the  swineherd. 

"  I  am  glad  every  fool  knows  that  too,"  said  Wamba ; 
"  and  pork,  I  think,  is  good  Norman- French.  And  so,  when 
the  brute  lives,  and  is  in  charge  of  a  Saxon  slave,  she  goes 
by  her  Saxon  name  ;  but  becomes  a  Norman,  and  is  called 
pork,  when  she  is  carried  to  the  castle  hall  to  feast  among 
the  nobles.     What  dost  thou  think  of  this,  Gurth,  ha?  " 

4 


50  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

"  It  is  but  too  true  doctrine,  friend  Wamba,  however  it 
got  into  thy  fool's  pate." 

"  Nay,  I  can  tell  you  more,"  said  Wamba,  in  the  same 
tone :  "  there  is  old  Alderman  Ox  continues  to  hold  his 
Saxon  epithet  while  he  is  under  the  cliarge  of  serfs  and 
bondsmen  such  as  thou,  but  becomes  Beef,  a  fiery  French 
gallant,  when  he  arrives  before  the  worshipful  jaws  that  are 
destined  to  consume  him.  Mynheer  Calf,  too,  becomes 
Monsieur  de  Veaii  in  like  manner :  he  is  Saxon  when  he 
requires  tendance,  and  takes  a  Norman  name  when  he 
becomes  matter  of  enjoyment." 

Yet  we  must  not  be  ungrateful  to  the  Normans,  for  they 
brought  into  the  language  many  words  that  are  valuable, 
and  many  which  we  could  hardly  do  without. 

One  way  in  which  the  speech  of  the  people  was  preserved 
was  by  means  of  the  old  ballads,  sung  among  them  by 
native  minstrels.  These  were  true  English  songs,  composed 
by  untaught  poets,  many  of  whom,  doubtless,  were  unable 
to  write  at  all.  To  this  class  of  old  ballads  belong  those 
relating  to  Robin  Hood,  which  were  the  literary  offspring  of 
the  struggle  between  Norman  and  English.  The  strife  for 
land-ownership,  which  drove  the  Englishman  from  field  and 
dwelling-place,  sometimes  forced  him  into  the  forest  and 
highway,  where,  outlawed  from  his  own  lands,  he  thought  it 
only  fair  to  take  back  what  he  could  from  his  rich  oppressor. 
Such  an  outlaw  was  Robin  Hood,  who,  if  we  may  believe 
anything  that  is  told  of  him,  was  an  F.nglishman  of  noble 
birth,  living  in  the  early  thirteenth  century.  Upon  his  bold 
deeds,  sympathized  with  by  the  English,  the  famous  Robin 
Hood  ballads  were  founded. 

You  can  fancy  how  such  a  rude  ballad,  sung  in  their  own 
spoken  tongue,  in  the  North  of  England,  must  have  moved 
the  people's  hearts,  and  kept  alive  their  love  for  their 
language  and  race.  Most  of  these  old  ballads  have  been 
changed,  no  doubt,  by  being  put  into  print ;  but  some  of 
them  have  kept  the  spirit  of  the  time*  which  produced  them. 
Here  is  one  of  the  oldest  of  these  ballads,  although  we 
cannot  be  sure  of  the  date  of  its  composition.     Probably 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  5 1 

the  earliest  that  has  come  down  to  us  did  not  find  its  way 
into  manuscript  before  the  fifteenth  century.  This  is  the 
ballad  of  Robin  Hood  and  Guy  of  Gisborne  :  — 

When  shaws  been  sheen  and  swards  full  fayre, 

And  leaves  both  large  and  longe, 
Itts  merrye  walkyng  in  the  fayre  forreste 

To  heare  the  small  birdes  songe. 

The  woodweele  sang  and  wold  not  cease, 

Sitting  upon  the  spraye, 
See  lowde  he  wakened  Robin  Hood 

In  the  green  wood  where  he  lay. 

"  Now,  by  my  faye,"  sayd  jollye  Robin, 

"  A  sweaven  I  had  this  hight. 
I  dreamt  me  of  tow  wighty  yemen, 

That  fast  with  me  can  fight. 

"  Methought  they  did  me  beate  and  binde, 

And  tooke  my  bowe  me  froe  ; 
Iff  I  be  Robin  alive  in  this  lande, 

lie  be  wroken  me  on  them  towe." 

"  Sweavens  are  swift,"  sayd  lyttle  John, 

"  As  the  wind  blowes  over  the  hill ; 
For  iff  itt  be  never  so  loiide  this  night. 
To-morrow  it  may  be  still." 

"  Buske  yee,  bowne  yee,  my  merry  men  all, 

And  John  shall  goe  with  mee, 
For  He  goe  seeke  yond  wighty  yeomen, 

In  greenwood  where  they  bee." 

Then  they  cast  on  theyr  gownes  of  grene. 

And  tooke  theyr  bowes  each  one  ; 
And  they  away  to  the  greene  forrest 

A  shooting  forth  are  gone. 

Until  thev  came  to  the  merry  greenwood, 

Where  they  had  gladdest  to  bee, 
There  were  they  ware  of  a  wighty  yeoman, 

That  leaned  against  a  tree. 

A  sword  and  dagger  he  wore  by  his  side. 

Of  manye  n  man  the  bane, 
And  he  was  clad  in  his  capull-hyde, 

Topp,  and  taill,  and  mayne. 


52  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

"  Stand  you  still,  master,"  quoth  Little  John, 

"  Under  this  tree  so  grene, 
And  I  will  go  to  yond  wight  yeoman 

To  know  what  he  doth  mcane." 

"  Ah,  John,  by  me  thou  settest  noe  store, 

And  that  I  farley  finde  ; 
How  often  send  I  my  men  before, 

And  tarry  myselfe  behinde  ? 

"  It  is  no  cunning  a  knave  to  ken, 
And  a  man  but  heare  him  speake ; 

And  were  it  not  for  bursting  of  my  bowe, 
John,  I  thy  head  wold  brcake." 

As  often  wordes  they  breeden  bale. 

So  they  parted,  Robin  and  John  : 
And  John  is  gone  to  Barnesdale  ; 

The  ways  he  knoweth  eche  one. 

Lett  us  leave  talking  of  Little  John, 

And  thinke  of  Robin  Hood, 
How  he  is  gone  to  the  wight  yeoman. 

Where  under  the  leaves  he  stood. 

"  Good  morrowe,  good  fellow,"  sayd  Robin  so  fayre, 
"  Good  morrowe,  good  fellow,"  quo'  he  ; 

"Methinkes  by  this  bowe  thou  bearcs  in  thy  hand, 
A  good  archere  thou  sholdst  bee." 

"  I  am  wilfulie  of  my  waye,"  quo'  the  yeman, 

"And  of  my  morning  tyde." 
"He  lead  thee  through  the  wood,"  said  Robin, 

"  Good  fellow,  He  be  thy  guides" 

"  I  seeke  an  outlawe,"  the  straunger  sayd, 

"Men  call  him  liobin  Hood  ; 
Rather  lid  meet  with  that  proud  outlawe, 

Than  fortye  pound  soe  good." 

"  Now  come  with  me,  thou  wighty  yeman. 

And  Robin  thou  soonc  shalt  see. 
But  first,  let  us  some  pastime  find, 

Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

"  First  let  us  some  masteryc  make, 

Among  the  woods  so  even. 
We  may  chance  to  meet  with  Robin  Hood, 

Here  at  some  unsctt  steven." 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE. 

They  cutt  them  down  two  summer  shroggs, 

That  both  grew  under  a  breere, 
And  sett  them  three  score  roode  in  twaine, 

To  shoote  the  prickes  yfere. 

"  Leade  on,  good  fellowe,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

"  Leade  on,  I  do  bidde  thee." 
"Nay,  by  my  faith,  good  fellowe,"  hee  sayd, 

"  My  leader  thou  shall  bee." 

The  first  time  Robin  shot  at  the  pricke 

He  mist  but  an  inch  it  fro. 
The  yeoman,  he  was  an  archer  good, 

But  he  cold  never  do  soe. 

The  second  shoote  had  the  wightye  yeman, 

He  shot  within  the  garland  ; 
But  Robin  he  shotte  far  better  than  hee, 

For  he  clave  the  pricke-wand. 

*'  A  blessing  upon  thy  hart,"  he  sayd, 
"  Good  fellowe,  thy  shooting  is  goode, 

For,  an  thy  hart  be  as  good  as  thy  hand, 
Thou  wert  better  than  Robin  Hoode. 

"Now  tell  me  thy  name,  good  fellowe,"  sayd  he, 

Under  the  leaves  of  lyne. 
"  Nay,  by  my  faith,"  quoth  bold  Robin, 

"Till  thou  have  told  me  thine." 

"  I  dwell  by  dale  and  downe,"  quoth  hee, 

"  And  Robin  to  take  Ime  sworne  ; 
And  when  I  am  called  by  my  right  name, 

I  am  Guy  of  good  Gisborne." 

"My  dwelling  is  in  this  wood,"  sayes  Robin. 

"  By  thee  I  set  right  nought. 
I  am  Robin  Hood  of  Barnesdale, 

Whom  thou  so  long  hast  sought." 

He  that  had  neyther  beene  kyth  nor  kin 

Might  have  seen  a  full  fayre  fight. 
To  see  how  together  these  yeomen  went, 

With  blades  both  browne  and  bright. 

To  see  how  these  yeomen  together  they  fought. 

Two  howres  of  a  summer's  day. 
Yett  neither  Robin  Hood  nor  Sir  Guy 

Them  fettled  to  flye  away. 


53 


54  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Robin  was  reachless  on  a  roote, 

And  stumbled  at  that  tyde, 
And  Guy  was  quick  and  nimble  withall, 

And  hitt  him  upon  the  side. 

"Ah  !  deere  Ladye,"  sayd  Robin  Hood,  "  tho' 
That  art  both  mother  and  may, 

I  think  it  was  never  man's  destinye 
To  dye  before  his  day." 

Robin  thought  on  Our  Ladye  deere. 

And  soone  leapt  up  againe, 
And  strait  he  came,  with  a  awkwarde  stroke, 

And  he  Sir  Guy  hath  slayne. 

lie  took  Sir  Guy's  head  by  the  hayre 
And  stuck  it  on  his  bowes  end. 

"Thou  hast  been  a  traytor  all  thy  life, 
Which  thing  must  have  an  end." 

Robin  did  off  his  gown  of  greene, 

And  on  Sir  Guy  did  throwe, 
And  he  put  on  that  capull-hyde 

That  cladd  him  topp  to  toe. 

"Thy  bowes,  thy  arrowes,  and  little  horn, 

Now  with  me  I  will  beare, 
And  I  will  away  to  Barnesdale 

To  sec  how  my  men  doe  fare." 


IX. 

How  THE  English  Language    finally  came   to   its   ow'n 

AGAIN,    AND    WHAT    BoOKS   AND    AUTHORS    HELPED   TO    KEEP 
IT   ALIVE    IN   THE   TWELFTH   AND    THIRTEENTH    CENTURIES. 

THE  man  to  whom  our  thanks  are  due  for  the  first  great 
book  written  in  English,  after  the  death  of  the  good 
King  Alfred,  is  a  priest  named  Layamon,  who  dwelt  near 
his  church  at  Earnley,  on  the  banks  of  the  Severn.  He 
tells  us  in  his  quaint  way  that  it  became  his  chief  thought 
"  that  he  would  of  England  tell  the  noble  deeds,  what  the 
men  were  named,  and  whence  they  came,  who  English  land 
first  held."     So  he  went  on  a  journey  to  find  three  books 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  55 

which  were  his  inspiration.  When  he  brought  them  home 
he  tells  us  how  he  took  them,  and  turning  over  the  leaves, 
"  beheld  them  lovingly,  pen  he  took  in  fingers  and  wrote  a 
book-skin,  the  true  words  set  together,  and  these  three 
books  compressed  into  one." 

Every  one  who  loves  books  will  feel  his  heart  throb  in 
sympathy  with  this  old  student  who  thus  lovingly  handled 
his  newly  acquired  treasures,  the  three  old  books  which 
were  the  models  for  his  own  work.  Layamon's  book  is 
called  Brut,  and  like  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth's  old  history, 
it  takes  up  the  line  of  British  kings  from  Brutus ;  tells  the 
story  of  King  Arthur  and  the  Round  Table ;  of  King  Lear 
and  his  ungrateful  daughters ;  and  many  other  interesting 
old  stories,  since  used  by  poets.  But  the  most  interesting 
fact  to  us  about  Layamon's  Bi-ut  is  that  when  the  fashion- 
able language  of  England  was  Norman- French,  this  book  of 
Layamon,  in  thirty-two  thousand  lines,  had  only  fifty-two 
Norman  words ;  the  rest  was  pure  English. 

Layamon's  ^/'///appeared  early  in  the  thirteenth  century. 
Two  other  books,  of  about  the  same  date,  also  helped  to 
keep  alive  the  English  language,  although  they  did  not 
amount  to  much  as  literature.  One  of  these,  called  the 
Ormuluvi,  was  written  by  a  pious  brother  of  the  Church, 
named  Ormin,  who  put  Bible  texts  and  passages  of  the 
Church  service  into  English  verse,  probably  because  the 
common  people  could  better  keep  the  sacred  lines  in  their 
memories  if  they  were  written  in  rhythm  and  in  their 
spoken  language.  Another  book  of  this  period,  written  in 
English,  was  the  Ancren  Riwle,  or  Rule  for  Anchoresses, 
written  by  a  bishop  for  three  good  ladies  who,  with  their 
domestics,  had  decided  to  lead  the  life  of  recluses.  The 
book  sets  forth  minutely  all  rules  for  daily  living,  and  the 
contents  include  rules  for  the  management  of  the  five 
senses,  —  seeing,  hearing,  smelling,  etc., —  as  well  as  rules  for 
all  domestic  matters. 

In  the  rules  on  seeing,  the  good  bishop  says  :  "  Where- 
fore, my  dear  sisters,  love  your  windows  as  little  as  possible. 
See  that  they  be   small,  the  parlor  or  front  windows  nar- 


56  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

rowest  and  smallest.  See  that  your  parlor  windows  be 
always  fast  on  every  side,  and  likewise  well  shut ;  and  mind 
your  eyes  there,  lest  your  heart  escape  and  go  out,  like 
David's,  and  your  soul  fall  sick  as  soon  as  it  is  out."  Reti- 
cence in  speech  is  strongly  praised,  since  the  Virgin  Mary 
was  a  silent  woman,  who  spoke  rarely.  In  respect  to  the 
sense  of  smcil,  patience  in  bad  smells  is  urged.  "  In 
heaven,"  says  the  bishop,  "  they  shall  smell  celestial  odors 
who  in  this  life  have  endured  stench  and  rank  smells  of 
sweat  from  iron,  or  haircloth  which  they  wore,  or  sweaty 
garments,  or  foul  air  in  houses."  All  of  which  seems  to 
modem  ears  like  an  encouragement  to  the  good  ladies  to 
do  without  much  washing,  and  to  ignore  the  idea  which 
has  since  gained  ground  that  cleanliness  is  very  near  to 
godliness. 

Although  these  books  helped  to  preserve  our  English 
speech  in  ears  that  hated  the  Normans,  yet  it  was  not  easy 
for  writers  of  that  time  to  accept  the  English  as  the  lan- 
guage of  literature.  Those  who  wrote  for  posterity  wanted 
a  more  stable  language  than  that  of  a  court  which  shifted 
from  English  to  Norman  and  back  again.  Thus  the  great 
history  writers  of  the  thirteenth  century,  Roger  of  Wendover, 
and  Matthew  of  Paris,  wrote  in  Latin ;  so  did  the  greatest 
philosopher  and  scientist  of  his  time,  Roger  Bacon,  —  a 
wonderful  man,  who  has  the  credit  of  having  invented  gun- 
powder. 

Near  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century  Robert  of 
Gloucester  wrote  a  rhyming  history  of  England  in  his  native 
tongue,  in  which  he  began  with  the  British  line  of  kings 
with  Brut,  and  came  down  to  Edward  I.  A  little  later  than 
this  Robert,  came  another  Robert,  Robert  Mannyng  of 
Brunne,  who  wrote  a  history  in  rhyme,  and  also  a  Manual 
of  Sins,  in  which  the  seven  deadly  sins  are  moralized  upon 
at  length.  He  was  a  true  patriot,  and  tells  us  he  means 
to  write  in  plain  words,  and  that  he  "  speaks  no  straunge 
Inglyss."  He  also  writes  with  moral  purpose,  and  tells 
his  women  readers  not  to  paint  their  faces  to  make  them 
fairer    than    they    are    by    nature,    and    not    to    go    about 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  57 

with  long  trailing   gowns,    on   whose   tails   the    devil   will 

ride  gayly. 

Robert  of  Brunne  wrote  in  the  opening  of  the  fourteenth 

century,  —  a  century  which  witnessed  the  final  triumph  of 

English,  and  saw  it  made  from  thenceforth  the  rightful  speech 

of  England.     It  was  in  the  reign  of  Edward  III. 

1327—1377 
that    this    triumph    came,    although    a    century 

earlier,  Henry  HI.,  when  he  came  to  be  king,  had  issued  a 
proclamation  to  the  English  in  their  own  language.  It  was 
indeed  high  time  for  English  kings  to  adopt  the  language  of 
the  land  they  lived  in,  for  Normandy  was  no  longer  a  pos- 
session of  England ;  it  had  been  lost  to  the  Crown  by  King 
John  Lackland,  and  had  become  altogether  an  alien  land. 
It  was,  therefore,  good  policy  as  well  as  good  sense  for  the 
kings  of  England  to  restore  the  neglected  speech  of  their 
country.  But  it  was  not  until  the  language  of  France  was 
the  speech  of  their  enemies  that  the  English  king  and  people 
united  to  crush  it  in  England.  When  the  stout  yeomen 
among  whom  King  Edward  III.  and  his  brave  son,  the 
Black  Prince,  fought  at  Cressy  and  Poitiers,  had  beaten 
France  in  two  great  battles,  both  king  and  people  willed 
that  the  language  of  their  foes  should  never  more  be  the 
language  of  England,  and  a  royal  decree  declared  that  the 
speech  of  the  land  should  be  henceforth  English. 

But  before  this,  stronger  powers  than  a  king's  edict  had 
been  at  work  in  literature.  It  was  a  fortunate  day  for  lan- 
guage and  for  poetry  when  Geoffrey  Chaucer  was  bom. 
He  and  a  group  of  noble  contemporaries  had  more  power 
to  make  the  English  language  current  than  all  the  decrees 
of  a  long  line  of  kings.  To  them,  and  to  the  people,  who 
heard  them  gladly,  we  owe  the  great  revival  of  the  original 
speech  of  our  forefathers. 


PART    11. 

> 

FROM    CHAUCER   TO    SPENSER. 

1350    TO    1550. 


X. 


Telling  of  some  of  the  Men  who  wrote  in  Chaucer's 
Time  ;  and  of  the  Vision  of  Piers  Ploughman. 

I  THINK  we  have  now  an  idea  of  the  way  in  which  Hter- 
ature  began  in  England,  and  of  its  struggles  to  be  heard 
in  the  language  native  to  the  people,  from  the  coming  of 
the  English  to  the  islands  of  Britain,  down  to  the  reign  of 
Edward  III.  In  this  reign  appeared  a  group 
of  writers  who  firmly  established  the  language  in 
literature.  These  men  were  Geoffrey  Chaucer,  John 
Wvcliffe,  John  Gower,  and  William  Langland.  From 
the  time  of  these  authors,  written  English  took  on  such 
form  that  you  can  read  it  to-day  with  little  difficulty.  Before 
their  time  you  would  find  even  Robert  of  Brunne,  who  said 
he  wrote  no  strange  English,  rather  hard  to  understand. 

You  have  seen  that  since  the  coming  of  the  first 
Christian  priests  to  England,  literature  owes  its  life  to  the 
Church  and  to  the  labors  of  the  Churchmen,  who,  from 
the  Venerable  Beda  onward,  had  devoted  themselves  to  the 
spread  of  learning  and  literature.  There  seem  to  have  been 
pure  and  pious  men  in  these  early  days  of  the  Church,  who, 
sincerely  religious,  devoted  themselves  to  good  works.  But 
during  the  years  that  followed  the  establishment  of  the 
religion  of  Rome  in  England  the  Christian  Church  was 
gradually  growing  corrupt.  What  taint  there  was  in  it  of 
corruption  and  hypocrisy  had  spread  through  the  whole 
body,  and  at  the  time  we  have  now  reached,  many  of  the 
religious  teachers  of  the  people  had  become  so  bad  that  the 
good  men  among  the  priests,  and  the  more  intelligent  part 


62  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

of  the  people  had  their  eyes  open  to  the  abuses  practised 
by  the  clergy,  and  not  frowned  upon  by  the  Church.  And 
in  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century  the  discontent  felt 
on  account  of  these  abuses  made  itself  heard  through  two 
powerful  mouthpieces, —  the  poem  of  William  Langland,  and 
the  preaching  of  John  Wycliffe.  Let  me  tell  you  first  about 
William  Langland's  poem  called  the  Vision  of  Ficrs  Plough- 
man, which  up  to  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  century  was  the 
most  popular  poem  —  perhaps  we  might  call  it  the  first 
great  popular  poem  —  ever  written  in  English. 

William  Langland  was  a  priest,  but  one  who  loved  good- 
About  ness  and  hated  hypocrisy,  and  his  lines  are  full  of 
1362  satire  against  the  falsehood  and  the  vices  of  the 
religious  teachers.  The  Vision  of  Piers  Ploughman  is  a 
dream,  or  a  succession  of  dreams,  in  the  course  of  which 
the  writer  wakes  up,  goes  about  his  business,  then  falls  into 
another  nap,  and  takes  up  the  thread  of  his  dream  again. 
The  poem  is  an  allegory,  which  will  remind  you  a  little  of 
The  Pilgrim's  Progress.  At  the  opening  of  it  the  writer  sees 
the  world  in  his  dream  like  a  great  Vanity  Fair,  in  which 
mingle  priests,  merchants,  soldiers,  and  husbandmen,  each 
busy  in  his  own  way.  Conscience,  Pity,  Reason,  Law,  and 
other  abstract  qualities  are  also  represented  as  persons,  and 
form  some  of  the  chief  characters  in  the  dream  ;  but  as  in 
most  other  allegories,  if  you  leave  the  story  only  to  follow 
the  meaning  that  lies  underneath,  the  brain  will  be  be- 
wildered and  the  interest  lost.  In  the  second  sleep  Piers 
Ploughman,  a  type  of  the  poor  and  simple  of  the  earth,  to 
whom  God  reveals  himself  rather  than  to  the  rich  and 
mighty,  comes  upon  the  scene.  Ploughman  was  a  happy 
name  to  catch  the  ear  of  the  classes  among  whom  it  was 
meant  this  poem  should  be  heard.  Those  who  study 
Piers  Ploughman  will  find  in  its  lines  the  dawn-gleams  of 
democracy,  the  recognition  of  certain  rights  belonging 
to  the  lowest  man,  which  first  found  expression  in  poetry. 
Remember  this,  and  the  utterance  of  Langland  will  take 
on  a  fresh  interest  and  a  new  life.  The  poem  begins 
thus:  — 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE. 


^l 


"  In  a  jummer  reason, 
When  j-oft  was  the  jun, 
I  put  me  into  clothes, 
As  I  a  shepherd  were ; 
In  /izhit  as  a  /permit, 
Un/ioly  of  works, 
IFent  wide  in  this  world, 
Jf'onders  to  hear, 
And  on  a  AIa.y  woruing. 
On  J/alvern  hills. 
Me  befell  a  wonder. 
I  was  jfeary  with  (C/andering, 
And  went  me  to  rest 
Under  a  broad  bank. 
By  a  burn's  side. 
And  as  I  lay,  and  leaned, 
And  looked  in  the  waters, 
I  j-lumbered  into  a  sleeping, 
It  swayed  so  merry  i 
Then  gan  I  to  dream 
A  marvellous  dream 
That  I  was  in  the  wilderness. 
Wist  I  never  where. 
As  I  beheld  unto  the  east 
On  high  to  the  sun, 


I  saw  a  tower  on  a  hill 

Wondrously  built.     .     .     . 

A  fair  field  of  folk 

Found  I  there  between, 

Of  all  manner  of  men. 

The  mean  and  the  rich, 

Working  and  wandering 

As  the  world  asketh. 

Some  put  them  to  the  plough, 

Playing  full  seldom. 

In  setting  and  sowing 

Working  full  hard. 

In  prayers  and  penance 

Many  took  part 

For  love  of  our  Lord, 

Living  full  strict 

In  hopes  to  have  after 

Heavenly  bliss.     .     .     . 

I  found  there  friars. 

All  the  four  orders. 

Preaching  to  the  people 

For  profit  to  themselves; 

Closed  the  gospel 

As  it  seemed  good  to  them.  "^ 


From  these  few  lines  you  may  get  some  idea  of  the  style 
of  the  poem;  but  you  cannot,  from  so  brief  an  extract, 
form  any  idea  of  the  influence  it  exercised  against  the  cor- 
ruption of  priests  and  pardoners,  who  sold  absolutions  for 
sins  which  they  committed  themselves  without  caring  to  be 
absolved.  And  you  can  hardly  imagine,  even  if  you  read  it 
entire,  what  an  interest  this  old  poem  was  capable  of  excit- 
ing in  its  day. 

The  Viswn  was  followed,  in  the  opening  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  by  Piers  PloHi^hman's  Crede,  which  was  written 
by  some  unknown  poet  later  than  Langland,  in  imitation  of 
his  style.  This  is  even  more  severe  against  the  abuses  of 
religion  than  the  first  poem,  and  its  hero  is  still  the  poor 

1  It  stvaycd  so  inerry,  —  The  waters  flowed  on  with  such  a  murmuring 
sound, 

■^  I  have  given  these  extracts  from  Pins  Ploits^hman  in  modern 
spelling,  sometimes  modernizing  words,  that  they  may  be  readily  under- 
stood. 


64  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

ploughman,  who  is  able  to  teach  truths  to  which  his  betters 
are  blind.  He  is  introduced  bending  over  the  plough,  in 
ragged  garments,  with  clouted  shoes  through  which  his  toes 
thrust  themselves,  slobbered  with  mud,  driving  lean  and 
hungry  oxen.  His  wife  walks  beside  him,  with  bare  feet, 
which  track  their  way  with  blood,  and  in  their  work  about 
the  field  they  sing  a  song  "  that  sorrowful  is  to  hear."  Yet 
from  the  lips  of  this  poor  ploughman  come  words  of  wis- 
dom and  consolation  such  as  the  rich  and  powerful  might 
gladly  hear.  In  its  teachings,  and  in  the  picture  the  poem 
gives  of  the  misery  of  the  English  peasant  who  tilled  the 
land,  there  was  a  spirit  of  reform  and  of  philanthropy  which 
shows  that  the  reformer  was  abroad  in  England  at  the  open- 
ing of  the  fifteenth  century. 

In  structure,  the  Vision  of  Piers  Ploughman  goes  back 
to  the  early  form  of  English  poetry.  It  is  in  short,  un- 
rhymed  lines,  words  nearly  all  of  one  syllable,  and  in 
the  alliterative  style  of  the  Beowulf.  Simple  and  direct  in 
diction,  it  was  made  to  speak  from  the  heart  of  the  writer 
to  the  common  heart  of  the  English  people,  and  it  deserved 
to  be,  as  it  was,  the  most  popular  poem,  up  to  that  time, 
ever  written  in  English. 


XL 

On  Three  Great   Contemporaries  of  Chaucer,  —  John 
WvcLiFFE,  John  Mandeville,  and  John  Gower. 

ABOUT  the    time  of  the   author  of  Piers  Ploughman 
came  John  Wycliffe,  who  stands  as  the  first  English 
Reformer,  and  who  ought  to  take  a  place  beside  Martin 
\bout    Luther,  the   sturdy   German  Reformer  of  a  later 
1324     time.     Wycliffe,  like  Luther,  was  a  monk,  and  like 
to       him  a  sincere  and  pious  man.      His    eyes   were 
early  opened  to  the  cheats  practised  by  mendicant 
friars,  who  went   about   begging   from  the  people  already 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  65 

too  heavily  taxed  for  the  Church,  peddhng  the  bones  of 
some  old  saint,  or  some  bits  of  wood  which  they  pre- 
tended were  pieces  of  the  true  cross,  or  other  relics  which 
they  declared  would  insure  the  soul's  salvation  of  the  per- 
son who  possessed  them.  Wycliffe  preached  boldly  against 
all  these  abuses  of  religion,  till  the  noble  thought  came  to 
him  to  make  a  translation  of  the  Bible  for  the  common 
people,  that,  reading  for  themselves,  they  might  under- 
stand the  true  meaning  of  the  Scriptures  and  be  freed  from 
the  impositions  of  unworthy  priests.  And  thenceforward 
he  made  it  his  lifework,  through  persecution  and  abuse 
which  followed  him  beyond  the  grave,  to  give  the  simple 
teachings  of  Jesus  to  the  people.  Shortly  before  his  death 
he  was  summoned  to  the  papal  bar  at  Rome  to  answer  for 
his  heresies ;  but  his  bodily  strength  had  failed,  and  he  died 
before  he  could  meet  his  accusers.  Forty  years  after  his 
death  the  Pope  ordered  that  his  bones  should  be  dug  up 
from  the  grave  in  which  they  had  rested  so  many  years, 
and  should  be  burned  and  scattered  abroad.  This  was 
done,  and  his  ashes  were  cast  into  a  stream  which  empties 
into  the  Avon.  "Thus,"  says  the  old  historian,  Thomas 
Fuller,  "  this  brook  did  convey  his  ashes  into  Avon ;  Avon 
into  Severn ;  Severn  into  the  narrow  sea ;  and  this  to  the 
wide  ocean.  And  so  the  ashes  of  Wycliffe  are  the  emblem 
of  his  doctrine,  which  is  now  dispersed  the  wide  world 
over." 

Wycliffe's  translation  of  the  Bible  into  simple,  spoken 
English  made  the  grand  and  poetic  diction  of  the  Scrip- 
tures common  to  all  ears.  It  wrought  almost  as  great 
an  influence  on  language  as  the  first  introduction  of 
Hebrew  poetry  had  worked  on  literature.  After  opening 
up  such  a  well  of  pure  English,  from  which  all  who  chose 
could  drink  freely,  the  language  could  not  be  again  choked 
up  and  obscured  by  any  foreign  speech.  The  thirst  of  the 
people  for  the  simple  teachings  of  the  gospels,  so  easily 
understood,  that  for  so  long  a  time  had  come  to  them 
mixed  with  all  sorts  of  superstitions,  can  hardly  be  realized 
by  us  in  this  age  of  freedom.     "  A  poor  yeoman,"  says 

5 


66  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

John  Foxe,  the  author  of  the  Book  of  Martyrs,  "  has  been 
known  to  give  a  load  of  hay  for  a  few  leaves  of  Paul  or 
the  gospels."  Often  the  parchment  was  read  till  scarce  a 
shred  of  it  remained.  You  must  fancy,  since  I  have  not 
time  to  tell  you  all  about  it,  how  the  idea  of  liberty 
of  thought  and  conscience  among  the  people  must  have 
quickened  the  workings  of  that  spirit  which  always  breathes 
best  in  free  air,  —  the  true  genius  of  English  literature. 

In  the  same  age  with  Fiers  Ploughman  came  also  John 
Ab  ut    Mandeville,    who    wrote    excellent    English  prose. 

1300  His  great  work  is  an  account  of  his  travels  in 
to       Palestine,  and  thence  to   India  and   China.      No 

^^'^^  modern  tourist  can  rival  the  charm  of  these  oldest 
books  of  travels,  such  as  were  written  by  John  Mande- 
ville,  by  the  Italian  traveller  Marco  Polo,  and  by  the  early 
voyagers  to  our  own  country,  who  came  two  centuries 
after  Mandeville,  In  those  days  the  traveller  saw  and 
heard  with  the  eyes  and  ears  of  a  child,  —  he  told  all  he 
saw,  and  believed  all  he  heard.  Sir  John  Mandeville  has 
been  accused  of  exaggeration  because  he  told  many  incred- 
ible stories,  —  indeed,  some  now  go  so  far  as  to  deny  his 
existence ;  but  I  think  that  he  existed,  and  that  he  wrote 
nothing  that  he  did  not  believe.  We  must  remember  that 
in  his  time  fact  seemed  much  stranger  than  fiction  ;  the  truest 
things  he  told  were  often  received  with  greatest  incredulity, 
while  a  story  hke  the  following  was  sure  of  full  belief. 
He  says,  — 

"Bethlehem  is  a  little  city,  long  and  narrow  and  well-walled, 
and  on  each  side  enclosed  with  good  ditches.  .  .  .  And  toward 
the  east  end  of  the  city  is  a  very  fair  and  handsome  church 
with  many  towers,  pinnacles,  and  corners  strongly  and  curiously 
made.  .  .  .  And  l^etween  the  city  and  the  church  is  the  field 
Floridus, — that  is  to  say,  the  field  T'lourislied.  For  a  fair 
maiden  was  blamed  with  wrong  and  slandered,  and  was  con- 
demned to  be  burned  in  that  place;  and  as  the  fire  began  to 
burn  about  her,  she  made  her  prayers  to  our  Lord,  that  as 
truly  as  she  was  not  guilty,  he  would  of  his  merciful  grace  help 
her  and  make  it  known  to  all  men.  And  when  she  had  thus 
said,  she  entered  into  the  fire,   and  immediately  the  fire  was 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  6"^ 

extinguished,  and  the  fagots  that  were  burning  become  red  rose- 
bushes, and  those  that  were  not  kindled  became  white  rose- 
bushes, full  of  roses.  And  these  were  the  first  rose-trees  and 
roses,  both  red  and  white,  that  ever  any  man  saw.'" 

This  was  considered  by  pious  readers  a  good,  sensible 
story ;  but  when  Mandeville  began  to  write  out  his  ideas 
about  the  shape  of  the  earth,  men  began  to  jeer  at  him, 
and  laugh  at  his  absurd  notions.  He  gives  at  some  length 
his  ideas  of  geography  and  astronomy,  derived  from  his 
extensive  travel  and  observation,  and  finally  says  he  be- 
lieves this  earth  is  round.  ''  Nay,  more,"  he  says,  "  I  tell 
you  certainly  that  men  may  go  all  around  the  world,  as 
well  under  as  above,  and  might  return  so  again  to  their 
own  country  if  they  had  shipping  and  guides ;  and  always 
they  would  find  men,  land,  and  isles  as  well  as  in  our  part 
of  the  world.  For  they  who  are  of  the  antarctic  are  di- 
rectly feet  opposite  of  them  who  dwell  under  the  polar 
star,  as  well  as  we  and  they  who  dwell  under  us  are  feet 
opposite  feet."  As  even  in  the  time  of  Columbus,  a 
hundred  and  fifty  years  later,  the  theory  of  the  roundness 
of  the  earth  was  not  generally  received,  I  think  this  argues 
very  well  for  Mandeville's  understanding. 

"  Of  Paradise,"  says  the  old  traveller,  simply,  "  I  cannot  speak 
properly,  for  I  was  not  there.  .  .  .  The  earthly  paradise,  as  wise 
men  say,  is  the  highest  place  of  the  earth,  and  it  is  so  high  that 
it  nearly  touches  the  circle  of  the  moon  there  as  the  moon  makes 
her  turn.  And  it  is  so  high  that  the  flood  of  Noah  might  not 
come  to  it.  .  .  .  And  this  Paradise  is  enclosed  all  about  with 
a  wall,  and  men  know  not  whereof  it  is,  for  the  wall  is  covered 
all  over  with  moss,  as  it  seems,  and  it  seems  not  that  the  wall 
is  natural  stone.  .  .  .  And  you  shall  understand  that  no  man 
that  is  mortal  may  approach  to  that  Paradise,  for  by  land  no 
man  may  go,  for  wild  beasts  that  are  in  the  deserts,  and  for  the 
high  mountains  and  great  huge  rocks  that  no  man  may  pass  by 
for  the  dark  places  that  are  there ;  and  by  the  rivers  may  no 
man  go,  for  the  water  runs  so  roughly  and  so  sharply,  because  it 
comes  down  so  outrageously  from  the  high  places  above  that  it 
runs  in  so  great  waves  that  no  ship  may  row  or  sail  against 
it.  .  .  .  Many  lords  have  assayed  with  great  will  many  times  to 
pass  by  those   rivers   towards   Paradise,  with  full  great  com- 


68  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

panics,  but  they  might  not  speed  in  their  voyage,  and  many  died 
for  weariness  of  rowing  against  the  strong  waves,  and  many 
of  them  became  blind,  and  many  deaf  by  the  noise  of  the  water, 
and  some  perished  and  were  lost  in  the  waves;  so  that  no 
mortal  man  may  approach  that  place  without  special  grace  of 
God ;  so  that  of  that  place  I  can  tell  you  no  more." 

Yoti  will  more  fully  understand  how  slightly  English  was 
esteemed  as  the  language  of  literature  when  1  tell  you  that 
Mandeville,  according  to  his  own  account,  first  wrote  his 
Travels  in  Latin,  then  translated  them  into  French,  and 
lastly  put  them  into  English,  so  as  to  be  sure  every  man 
of  his  nation  might  be  able  to  read  them.  The  extracts 
I  have  given  are  in  more  modern  English  than  he  wrote ; 
but  his  English  is  hardly  more  difficult  that  Chaucer's, 
and  he  is  generally  spoken  of  as  the  first  prose  writer  in 
our  language  who  can  be  read  by  a  modern  reader  unac- 
quainted with  old  English. 

Last  of  the  group  before  Chaucer  comes  John  Gower, 

a  very  tiresome  old  poet  whom  nobody  reads  nowadays. 

.  ,^^     Chaucer  gave  him  the  title  of  "  Moral  Gower," 

1320—1402 

which  has  stuck  to  him  from  that  time  to  this. 

He  wrote  three  books,  one  in  Latin,  one  in  French,  and 

one  in  English.      The  English  book  has   the    Latin  title 

of  Confessio  Amantis   (the  Confessions  of  a  Lover).     But 

although  these  Confessions  are  illustrated  by  a  great  many 

stories,  many  of  which  are  interesting  and  have  been  used 

over  again  with  much  better  effect  by  later  poets,  yet,  on 

the  whole,  Gower  is   so    dull  that  we  will  leave  him  for 

a  much   more  interesting    man,   his   friend   and   superior, 

Geoffrey  Chaucer. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERA  TURE.  69 

XIL 

On  Geoffrey  Chaucer,  his  Life  and  Poetry. 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER,  the  Father  of  Enghsh 
Poetry  —  what  a  proud  title  to  wear  for  so  gorn  1328 
many  hundred  years  !  —  is  a  different  sort  of  poet  or  1340. 
from  John  Gower,  whom  I  have  just  mentioned.  ^^^^  ^^'^• 
The  two  men  seem  to  have  been  good  friends,  however,  and 
in  the  Confessions  of  a  Lover,  the  goddess  Venus  tells  the 
lover  to — 

"  Grete  wel  Chaucer  when  ye  mete, 
As  my  disciple  and  my  poete,"  — 

which  is  a  compliment  that  Chaucer  might  well  have  re- 
turned by  his  epithet  of  "Moral  Gower." 

We  do  not  know  with  certainty  the  date  of  Chaucer's 
birth.  Some  of  his  biographers  think  it  is  1328  ;  others, 
1340.  The  first  date  is  the  one  which  has  been  the  long- 
est believed  to  be  the  true  one  ;  the  last  is  that  accepted  by 
several  modern  scholars.  For  my  part,  I  think  the  exact 
date  really  makes  very  little  difference,  so  long  as  we  know 
the  great  events  amid  which  his  life  was  surely  passed,  the 
great  ideas  which  were  current  in  the  age  during  which  he 
must  have  lived  in  full  mental  vigor,  and  the  fact  that  this 
group  of  literary  men  of  whom  I  have  spoken  were  his 
contemporaries.  We  know  that  he  died  in  1400,  and  lived 
in  the  reigns  of  three  kings,  —  Edward  III.,  Richard  II.,  and 
Henry  IV. 

We  do  not  know  much  about  the  early  part  of  his  life. 
He  was  born  in  London,  the  son  of  a  wine-dealer.  One  of 
the  first  certain  facts  in  his  life,  after  the  uncertain  date  of 
his  birth,  is  that  he  was  a  member  of  a  noble  family  as  one 
of  the  pages  of  the  household,  which,  in  those  days,  was  a 
respectable,  indeed  an  honorable,  capacity.  He  was  with 
the  army  of  Edward  III.  when  it  went  to  invade  France  in 


70  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

1359,  and  Chaucer  was  then  made  prisoner,  and  ransomed 
afterwards  by  the  king.  After  this  we  hear  of  him  fre- 
quently in  the  court  records,  —  once  as  having  a  pitcher  of 
wine  sent  him  every  day  from  the  royal  wine-cellars  ;  another 
time  as  getting  a  pension  from  the  Crown  for  services 
rendered  ;  again  as  one  of  the  ambassadors  who  went 
to  France  to  arrange  the  marriage  of  Richard  II. ;  and  as 
concerned  in  other  diplomatic  missions.  We  know  that 
his  friend  and  patron  was  John  of  Gaunt,  the  Duke  of  Lan- 
caster, called  by  Shakespeare  "  time-honored  Lancaster," 
whose  son  became  King  Henry  IV.  Chaucer  married  a 
Lady  Philippa,  and  it  is  claimed  by  several  writers  that 
John  of  Gaunt  married  a  sister  of  this  very  lady.  If 
this  was  so,  Chaucer  and  his  noble  patron  were  brothers- 
in-law. 

John  of  Gaunt  was  at  one  time  the  head  of  the  Wy- 
cliffe  party,  and  although  he  did  not  follow  so  far  as 
Wycliffe  led,  he  aided  him  in  his  earlier  fight  against  papal 
power  by  his  strong  influence.  It  is  probable  that 
Chaucer  also  sympathized  with  Wycliffe,  and  that  he  took 
the  generous  side  in  religion  and  politics.  I  am  sure  I 
hope  so,  for  I  like  to  associate  the  "  Father  of  English 
Poetry  "  with  freedom  of  thought  and  speech,  and  to  be- 
lieve that  he  was  as  much  of  a  man  as  a  poet,  or  the  better 
poet  that  he  was  a  liberal,  outspoken  man.  Almost  at 
the  close  of  his  century,  and  near  the  end  of  his  life, 
Chaucer  took  a  house  on  the  lands  of  Westminster  Abbey, 
and  sat  down  there  to  spend  his  latest  days.  When  he 
died,  he  was  buried  in  the  Abbey,  and  you  may  there  read 
his  name  on  the  stones  of  the  wall  in  the  "  Poet's  Comer," 
the  first  of  that  long  line  of  great  names  which  adorns 
that  sacred  spot  in  the  grand  old  building. 

Chaucer  wrote  many  works,  sometimes  in  prose,  although 
most  commonly  in  verse.  Many  of  his  earlier  poems  are 
little  more  than  translations.  The  Roman  dc  la  Rose,  which 
first  made  him  known  as  a  poet,  was  a  translation  from  two 
French  writers,  although  we  may  be  sure  Chaucer  could 
not  handle  anything  without  leaving  a  good  deal  of  himself 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  71 

in  it.  He  never  made  any  pretence  of  originality,  and  al- 
ways shows  himself  a  sincere  man  and  without  affectation 
in  his  work.  Others  of  his  principal  poems  are  The  House 
of  Fame,  The  Book  of  the  Duchess,  The  Legend  of  Good 
Women,  The  Assetnbly  of  Fowls,  Troilus  and  Cressida. 
We  have  not  time  to  look  at  these,  but  must  come  at  once 
to  his  great  work,  The  Canterbury  Tales,  the  only  one  of 
his  poems  which  is  much  read  nowadays. 

The  Canterbury  Tales  is  a  collection  of  stories  told  by  a 
party  of  men  and  women  who  meet  at  the  Tabard  Inn, 
which  was  situated  in  the  High  Street  of  Southwark,  near 
London,  to  set  out  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of  Saint 
Thomas  a  Becket  in  Canterbury  cathedral,  about  fifty  miles 
distant.  They  are  a  tompany  taken  from  all  ranks  of  life, 
and  almost  every  condition  is  represented.  Their  number 
is  nine-and-twenty,  when  they  are  joined  by  the  poet  and 
the  host  of  the  Tabard  Inn. 

In  the  Prologue,  which  forms  the  preface  of  the  stories, 
nearly  every  person  in  the  party  is  described  in  an  easy 
and  familiar  style,  as  if  Chaucer  was  introducing  you  in 
a  manner  to  make  you  perfectly  well  acquainted  with  his 
character.  Each  figure  drawn  by  his  pen  seems  like  a  real 
person  whom  we  see,  rather  than  read  about.  The  modern 
novelist,  who  prides  himself  on  drawing  life-like  pictures  of 
the  men  and  women  of  this  day,  has  never  succeeded  bet- 
ter than  the  old  poet,  who  gives  so  perfect  an  idea  of  a 
group  of  every-day  persons  of  the  fourteenth  century. 

First  of  all  comes  the  Knight,  "  who  from  the  time  he 
first  began  to  riden  out,  he  loved  chivalry,  truth,  honor, 
freedom,  and  courtesy."  He  had  been  in  many  wars  in  the 
South  and  East,  at  the  taking  of  Alexandria,  at  the  siege  of 
Grenada,  and  in  wars  against  the  heathen  Turk.  Yet,  like 
other  truly  brave  men,  he  is  gentle  and  unassuming,  "  as 
meek  of  port  as  is  a  maid."  "  In  truth,"  says  Chaucer,  "  a 
very  perfect,  gentle  knight."  The  next  character,  that  of 
the  Knight's  son,  the  Squire,  is  a  very  different  sort  of  person. 
He  is  a  dashing  young  fellow,  with  curling  hair  and  fair  com- 
plexion ;  a  fine  horseman,  who   can  also  dance  gracefully, 


72  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

write  songs  and  sing  them,  "  and  play  the  flute  like  a  lover." 
Then  comes  Madame  Eglantine,  the  prioress  of  a  convent, 
a  sweet  gentlewoman,  who,  although  the  bride  of  the  Church, 
wears  as  tlie  motto  on  her  brooch,  "  Love  conquers  all." 
Here  is  her  picture  as  Chaucer  gives  it :  — 

"  Ful  wel  she  sang  the  service  devine, 
Entuned  in  hire  nose  ful  swetely  ; 
And  Frenche  she  spoke  ful  fayre  and  fetisly, 
After  the  schole  of  Stratford-attc-Bowe, 
For  Frenche  of  Paris  was  to  hire  unknowe. 
At  mete  was  she  wel  ytaughte  withalle; 
She  let  no  morsel  from  hire  lippes  falle, 
Ne  wette  hire  fingires  in  hire  sauce  depe. 
Wel  coude  she  carie  a  morsel  and  wel  kepe 
Thatte  no  droppe  ne  fell  upon  hire  brest.  .  .  . 

"  But  for  to  speken  of  hire  conscience, 
She  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitous, 
She  wolde  weep  if  that  she  saw  a  mous 
Caughte  in  a  trappe  if  it  were  ded  or  bledde. 
Of  smale  houndes  hadde  she  that  she  fedde 
With  rested  flesh  and  milk  and  wastel  brede  ; 
But  sore  wept  she  if  on  of  hem  were  dede.  .  .  . 
Hire  nose  was  stretis  ;  hire  eyes  as  grey  as  glas; 
Hire  mouth  ful  smale,  and  therto  soft  and  red, 
But  sickerly  she  had  a  fayre  forehed.     .     .     . 

"  Full  fetise  was  hire  cloke,  as  I  was  ware. 
Of  small  corale  aboute  hire  arm  she  bare 
A  pair  of  bedcs,  gauded  all  with  grcnc , 
And  thcron  hcng  a  broche  of  gold  ful  shene, 
On  whiche  was  ywriten  a  crouncd  A, 
And  after  'Amor  vincit  omnia.^  " 

Can  we  not  see  Madame  Eglantine  as  plainly  as  if  she 
stood  before  us  in  broad  day,  with  her  gray  eyes,  her  little 
soft  red  mouth,  her  fair  forehead,  and  her  dainty  ways 
when  she  sits  at  the  table  ?  The  only  other  woman  of  the 
party,  except  a  nun  attendant  on  the  Prioress,  who  passes 
without  description,  was  the  Wife  of  Bath,  —  a  great  con- 
trast  to  the  delicate   Madame  Eglantine  :  — 

"She  was  a  worthy  woman  all  hire  live, 
Housbondcs  at  the  chirche  doore  had  she  had  five." 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


71 


And  besides  her  matrimonial  experiences,  she  had  trav- 
elled much,  having  been  in  Jerusalem,  Rome,  Germany, 
and  France.  She  had  a  fair  face,  though  somewhat  red 
and  bold  \  her  shoes  were  shining  new,  and  her  stockings 
of  fine  scarlet ;  she  rode  her  ambling  nag  easily,  and  wore 
spurs  like  a  man. 

Next  comes  a  Monk,  in  a  fur-trimmed  mantle,  his  hood 
fastened  under  his  chin  with  a  curious  pin  of  gold,  and  his 
scarf  tied  in  a  love-knot.  His  companion  is  a  merry  Friar, 
who  gives  easy  penance  to  his  parishioners,  and  administers 
absolution  "  ful  swetely." 

"  Somwhat  he  lisped  for  his  wantonnesse, 
To  make  his  English  swete  upon  his  tonge." 

The  Clerk  of  Oxford,  who  follows,  is  lean,  like  his  horse ; 
his  coat  is  threadbare ;  he  might  be  twin-brother  to  the 
poor  student  of  the  present  day.  He  would  rather  have  a 
shelf  full  of  books  at  his  bed's  head  than  rich  clothes  or 
any  other  pleasures.  What  a  contrast  to  him  is  the  Frank- 
lin, an  English  squire  of  the  fourteenth  century,  with  a 
beard  white  as  a  daisy,  a  full  red  face,  and  all  the  marks  of 
a  gourmand, — 

"  Withouten  bake  mete  never  was  his  hous ; 
Of  fish  and  flesh,  and  that  so  plenteous, 
It  snewed  in  his  hous  of  mete  and  drinke." 

Then  come  a  quartet  of  mechanics,  all  dressed  in  the 
livery  of  their  orders,  each  with  well-filled  purses,  "and 
shaped  to  have  been  an  alderman."  The  Miller,  the  Cook, 
the  Doctor,  the  Lawyer,  the  Merchant,  the  poor  Parson,  and 
his  brother,  the  Ploughman,  —  these  last  two,  in  our  judg- 
ment, the  only  really  pious  persons  in  this  company  of 
religious  pilgrims,  —  make  up  the  party.  Such  is  a  Httle 
glimpse  of  that  group  who  set  out  on  a  soft  April  day  on 
that  immortal  pilgrimage  to  Canterbury, 


74  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

XIII. 

On  the  Stories  of  the  Cani'erbury  Pilgrims. 

WHEN  the  Canterbury  travellers  first  set  out  upon 
their  journey,  the  jolly  host  of  the  Tabard  proposes 
that  they  shall  beguile  the  way  by  telling  stories,  each  doing 
his  share  in  turn.  This  is  agreed  upon,  and  it  falls  to  the 
Knight  to  begin.  He  tells  the  story  of  Palanion  and  Arcite, 
two  noble  kinsmen  who  are  sworn  brothers  in  friendship 
till  they  both  fall  in  love  with  the  same  lady,  the  fair 
Emelie,  sister  of  Duke  Theseus,  who  holds  the  two  noble- 
men as  his  prisoners  of  war.  I  think  you  will  find  this,  the 
Knight's  Tale,  the  most  interesting  of  all  the  stories.  It 
is  made  gorgeous  by  the  description  of  a  tournament,  — 
a  description  so  vivid  that  we  seem  to  see  the  waving  of 
plumes,  the  glitter  of  armor,  and  the  very  dust  that  rises 
from  the  field  of  conflict  when  the  knights  spur  towards 
each  other  with  raised  lances.  Emelie,  the  heroine  of  this 
story,  is  one  of  the  loveliest  of  all  Chaucer's  women.  We 
see  her  first  in  a  garden,  where  the  birds  arc  singing  and 
the  flowers  blossoming  under  the  shadow  of  the  great  stone 
tower  where  the  knights  who  love  her  are  shut  up  in  prison. 
These  are  the  lines  in  which  Chaucer  describes  her :  — 

"  Till  it  felle  ones  in  a  morwc  of  May 
That  Emelie,  that  fayrer  was  to  scnc 
Than  is  the  lilic  upon  his  stalkc  grcnc, 
And  fresher  than  the  May,  with  floiircs  newe 
(For  with  the  rose  colour  strof  hire  hewe, 
I  n'ot  which  was  finer  of  hem  two). 
Er  it  was  day,  as  she  was  wont  to  do, 
She  was  arisen,  and  al  redy  dight, 
For  May  woll  have  no  slogardie  a-night. 
The  seson  priketh  every  gentil  herte, 
And  maketh  him  out  of  his  slepe  to  sterte.  .  .  . 
Hire  yelwe  here  was  broided  in  a  tresse, 
Behind  hire  back  a  yerdc  long,  I  gesse, 
And  in  the  gardin  as  the  somie  uprist 
She  walkcth  up  and  doun  wher  as  hire  list, 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  75 

She  gathereth  floures,  partie  white  and  red, 
To  make  a  sotile  gcrlond  for  hire  hed, 
And  as  an  angel  hevenliche  she  song." 

Meantime  the  two  prisoners,  Palamon  and  Arcite,  en- 
closed in  the  great  stone  tower  over  the  garden,  get  their 
first  sight  of  Emelie. 

"  Bright  was  the  sonne  and  clere  that  morwening, 
And  Palamon,  tliis  woful  prisoner, 
As  was  his  wone,  by  leve  of  his  gayler, 
Was  risen,  and  romed  in  a  chambre  on  high, 
In  which  he  all  the  noble  citee  sigh. 
And  eke  the  gardin,  ful  of  branches  grene. 
Ther  as  this  freshe  Emelie,  the  shene. 
Was  in  hire  walk,  and  romed  up  and  down. 
This  sorweful  prisoner,  this  Palamon, 
Goth  in  his  chambre,  roming  to  and  fro. 
And  to  himself  complaining  of  his  woe.  .  .  . 
And  so  befell,  by  aventure  or  eas. 
That  through  a  window  thikke  of  many  a  barre 
Of  yren  grete  and  square  as  any  sparre, 
He  cast  his  eyen  upon  Emelia, 
And  therewithal  he  blent  and  cried,  "  A  !  " 
As  though  he  stungen  were  unto  the  herte. 
And  with  that  crie  Arcite  anon  upsterte, 
And  saide,  'Cosin  min,  what  eyleth  thee  .-' 
That  art  so  pale  and  dedly  for  to  see  .'' 
Why  criedst  thou  ?     Who  hath  thee  don  offense  ? 
For  goddes  love  take  all  in  patience 
Our  prison,  for  it  may  none  other  be, 
Fortune  hath  yeven  us  this  adversite.'  .  .  . 
This  Palamon  answerde,  and  sayd  again  : 
'This  prison  caused  me  not  for  to  crie, 
But  I  was  hurt  right  now,  thrughout  min  eye 
Into  min  herte ;  that  woll  my  bane  be. 
The  fayrnesse  of  a  lady  that  I  see 
Yond  in  the  gardin,  roming  to  and  fro, 
Is  cause  of  all  my  crying  and  my  wo. 
I  n'ot  whe'r  she  be  woman  or  goddess. 
But  Venus  is  it  sothly,  as  I  gesse.'  .  .  . 
And  with  that  word  Arcita  gan  espie, 
Wher  as  this  lady  romed  to  and  fro. 
And  with  that  sight  hire  beantee  hurt  him  so, 
That  if  that  Palamon  were  wounded  sore, 
Arcite  is  hurt  as  moche  as  he,  or  more, 
And  with  a  sigh  he  saye  pitously, 
'The  freshe  beautee  sleth  me  sodenly 


76  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Of  her  that  romcth  in  the  yonder  place, 

And  but  I  have  hire  mercy  and  hire  grace. 

That  I  may  seen  hire  at  the  leste  way, 

I  n'am  but  ded,  ther  n'is  no  more  to  say.' 

This  Palamon,  when  he  these  wordes  herd, 

Dispitously  he  looked  and  answerd  : 

'  Whether  sayst  thou  this,  in  erncst  or  in  play  ?' 

•Nay,'  said  Arcite,  '  in  erncst,  by  my  fay.'  .  .  . 

This  Palamon  gan  knit  his  browcs  twey, 

'  It  were,'  quod  he,  '  to  thee  no  grct  honour 

For  to  be  false,  ne  for  to  be  tray  tour 

To  me,  that  am  thy  cosin  and  thy  brother, 

Vsworn  ful  depe  and  cche  of  us  to  other.  .  .  . 

Thus  art  thou  of  my  counseil  out  of  doute, 

And  now  thou  woldest  falsly  ben  aboute 

To  love  my  lady,  whom  I  love  and  serve, 

And  ever  shal  til  that  man  herte  sterve. 

Now,  certes,  false  Arcite,  thou  shalt  no  so. 

I  loved  hire  firste,  and  toldc  thee  o  my  woe.'  .  .  . 

This  Arcita  full  proudly  spake  again, 

'Thou  shalt,'  quod  he,  'be  rather  false  than  I. 

And  thou  art  false,  I  tell  thee  utterly, 

For,  par  amour,  I  loved  hire  first  or  thou. 

What  wolt  thou  sayn }     Thou  wistcd  nat  right  now 

W^hether  she  were  a  woman  or  a  goddesse. 

Thin  is  affection  of  holiness, 

And  min  is  love  as  to  a  creature. 

For  which  I  tolde  thee  min  aventure. 

As  to  my  cosin  and  my  brother  sworne; 

I  pose  that  thou  lovcdst  hire  bcforn. 

Wost  thou  not  wel  the  old  clerkes  sawc. 

That  who  shall  give  a  lover  any  lawc  ?  .  .  . 

A  man  moste  necdes  love  maiigre  his  hod, 

He  may  not  fleen  though  he  shuldc  be  ded.  .  .  . 

And  therfore  at  the  kinges  court,  my  brother, 

Eche  man  for  himself,  ther  is  non  other. 

Love  if  thee  lust,  for  I  love,  and  ay  shal. 

And  soth,  leve  brother,  this  is  al.'" 

And  on  this  throwing  down  of  the  gauntlet  on  the  part  of 
Arcite,  the  quarrel  between  the  two  kinsmen  gets  hotter  and 
hotter,  while  in  the  garden  below  faire  Emelie  goes  on  pick- 
ing her  flowers,  quite  unconscious  of  all  this  pother  over  her 
head.  I  will  not  tell  you  all  the  story,  because  it  is  the  one 
of  all  The  Canterbury  Tales  which  I  should  most  strongly 
advise  you  to  read. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  77 

The  story  of  pious  Custance  is  told  by  the  Man  of  Law. 
It  is  of  a  beautiful  princess  of  Rome  who  has  wedded  the 
Sultan  of  Syria,  and  on  her  nuptial  eve  is  set  adrift  in  an 
enchanted  ship  by  her  wicked  mother-in-law.  She  floats 
over  the  ocean  for  many  years  till  the  vessel  strands  on  the 
coast  of  Britain.  Here  she  is  succored  by  the  governor  of 
the  port  and  his  wife,  Dame  Hermegilde,  till  a  false  knight, 
who  hates  Custance  because  she  has  refused  his  love,  slays 
Dame  Hermegilde  and  accuses  Custance  of  the  murder. 
She  is  taken  for  trial  before  the  king,  and  must  die  unless 
she  can  find  a  champion  who  will  prove  her  innocence  in 
a  contest  of  arms  with  the  accusing  knight.  The  king, 
touched  with  pity  at  sight  of  Custance,  asks  if  she  has  no 
champion.  She  falls  on  her  knees  and  answers  that  she 
has  no  defender  but  God,  and  then,  rising,  looks  piteously 
about  her :  — 

"  Have  ye  not  seen  somtime  a  pale  face 
Among  a  pres  of  him  that  hath  ben  lad 
Toward  his  deth,  wher  as  he  geteth  no  grace, 
And  swiche  a  colour  in  his  face  hath  had, 
Men  mighten  know  him  that  was  so  bestad  ? 
Amonges  all  the  faces  in  that  route 
So  stant  Custance,  and  loketh  hire  about." 

Is  it  any  wonder  that  at  sight  of  that  pale,  innocent 
face  the  king  is  almost  ready  to  get  down  from  his  throne 
and  fight  as  her  champion?  He  calls  at  once  for  a  Breton 
book  of  the  gospels,  and  as  the  knight  swears  on  this  that 
Custance  is  guilty,  an  unseen  hand  smites  him,  so  that  his 
neck  is  broken  and  his  "eyes  burst  out  of  his  flice,  in 
sight  of  everybody  in  that  place."  The  British  King  Alia 
then  marries  pious  Custance,  so  wonderfully  protected, 
and  in  course  of  time,  when  the  king  is  away  on  some 
foreign  wars,  a  son  is  born  to  them.  Custance  falls  a 
victim  to  the  plots  of  her  second  mother-in-law,  who 
manages  to  have  her  sent  back  on  the  wonderful  ship 
again,  where  she  miraculously  floats  about  till  her  boy 
grows  to  manhood,  when  she  is  restored  to  her  husband, 
and    the    tale    ends   happily.      The    picture    of  Custance 


78  FAMILIAR   TALKS 

when  she  is  sent  to  the  ship  with  her  baby  is  in  Chaucer's 
tenJerest  vein  :  — 

"  Hire  litel  child  lay  weping  in  hire  arm, 
And  kncling,  pitously  to  him  she  said, 
'  Pees,  litel  sone,  I  wol  do  thee  no  harm.' 
With  that  hire  couverchief  of  her  hed  she  braid, 
And  over  his  litel  eyen  she  it  laid, 
And  in  hire  arme  she  lulleth  it  full  fast, 
And  into  the  heven  hire  eyen  up  she  cast.  .  .  . 
Thervvith  she  loketh  backward  to  the  lond, 
And  saide,  '  P'arewel,  housbond  rutheles  ; ' 
And  up  she  rist,  and  walkcth  doun  the  strond. 
Toward  the  ship  hire  foloweth  all  the  prees, 
And  ever  she  praieth  hire  child  to  hold  his  pees; 
And  taketh  hire  leve,  and  with  a  holy  cntent. 
She  blesscth  hire,  and  into  the  ship  she  went." 

Another  of  the  most  beautiful  of  all  these  stories,  and 
the  one  which  is,  I  think,  most  read,  is  the  story  of  patient 
Griselda,  told  by  the  Oxford  student.  This  tale,  which 
Chaucer  says  he  got  from  the  Italian  poet  Petrarch,  is  of 
a  meek  woman  who  has  married  a  man  above  her  in  rank, 
and  is  put  to  all  sorts  of  cruel  trials  by  her  husband  to 
prove  her  virtuous  patience.  She  triumphs  over  all  these 
tests,  and  is  happy  at  last.  We  are  so  indignant  at  her 
treatment  that  we  can  hardly  read  the  poem  with  patience ; 
and  even  Chaucer  says, — 

"  This  story  is  said,  not  for  that  wives  shuld 

Folwe  Grisildc,  as  in  humilitee. 
For  it  were  importable,  tho  they  wold, — 

But  for  that  every  wight  in  his  degree 
Shulde  be  constant  in  adversitee 

As  was  Grisilde  ;  therforc  Petrark  writeth 

This  storie,  which  with  high  stile  he  enditeth." 

If  you  do  not  care  to  read  all  TJic  Cantcrhury  Tales,  those 
I  have  mentioned  are  the  three  I  would  advise  you  to  read 
first.  A  few  of  the  stories  are  too  coarse  for  modern  taste, 
—  those  of  the  Miller,  the  Merchant,  the  Reeve,  and  one 
or  two  others.  Chaucer,  at  the  outset,  declares  he  is  not 
responsible  for  the  moral  of  the  stories,  and  only  tells  them 
as  he  heard  them.     I  regret  that  he  should  have  thought 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  79 

it  worth  while  to  tell  all  he  heard.  But  it  is  easy  enough 
for  us  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  the  gross  persons  of  the 
company,  and  most  of  the .  tales  are  pure  enough  for  any 
time. 

Chaucer's  quaint  old  English  deters  many  students  now- 
adays from  the  attempt  to  read  him.  But  a  very  little 
familiarity  with  him  will  make  his  language  plain,  with  the 
occasional  aid  of  a  glossary  to  look  up  a  word  which  has 
now  become  obsolete.  And  once  mastered,  the  elder 
English  of  Chaucer  is  delightful,  and  close  knowledge  of 
it  will  help  to  revive  many  dear  and  homely  words  that 
are  fast  disappearing  from  our  language,  and  aid  to  make 
clear  the  meanings  of  other  words  which  we  use  without 
a  full  consciousness  of  their  worth  and  richness.  If  we 
want  to  appreciate  the  beauty  of  our  English  tongue,  we 
shall  be  greatly  helped  by  an  acquaintance  with  Chaucer, 
and  shall  learn  what  a  debt  we  owe  the  Father  of  English 
poetry.  And  so  we  leave  our  good  old  poet  reluctantly, 
as  one  with  whom  we  should  like  to  be  better  acquainted, 
to  enter  upon  a  century  which  is  notable  for  two  of  the 
greatest  events  in  the  world's  history.  Let  us  see  what 
these  events  are,  and  what  influence  they  will  be  likely  to 
work  on  literature. 


XIV. 

Telling  of  some  of  the  Great  Events  of  the  Fifteenth 
Century,  —  of  Caxton  and  his  Printing- Press  ;  and 
of  the  Romance  of  the  Morte  d'Arthur. 

CHAUCER  died  in  the  opening  year  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury. With  him  literature  seemed  for  a  time  to  die 
also.  The  reign  of  the  house  of  Lancaster  brought  in  the 
hosts  of  bloody  war ;  insurrections  at  home  and  battles 
abroad  filled  up  the  first  half  of  the  century ;  and  when  the 
house    of  York   took  the  throne,  there  was  little  quiet  in 


So  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

which  to  hear  the  voice  of  poet  or  scholar.     Two  names 

that  closely  follow  that  of  Chaucer  are   all   that  we   meet 

with  of  any  consequence    till  the    close    of   the    century. 

The  first   is  that  of  John  Lyugate,  a  monkish 

schoolmaster   who   spent   his   leisure   in    writing 

poetry  which  we  should  pronounce  very  dull  indeed  ;   the 

second  is  that  of  a  lawyer,  Thomas  Occleve,  who 

wrote  verse  duller  even  than  Lydgate's.     In  the 

hundred  years  and  more  after  Chaucer  no  such  genius  blazed 

out  as  we  have  seen    in    Wyclifife's  prose   and    Chaucer's 

verse. 

But  although  few  new  books  were  written,  the  old  books 
grew  more  and  more  into  demand,  and  in  no  previous  cen- 
tury were  handsomer  copies  made  of  the  great  master- 
pieces of  literature  than  during  this  period.  So  great  was 
the  increase  in  the  making  of  books  that  manuscript  copying 
was  no  longer  done  wholly  by  monks,  but  became  the  work 
of  men  in  every-day  life.  This  change  led  naturally  to  the 
invention  of  printing ;  for  as  soon  as  book-making  came  to 
be  a  business  of  life,  and  not  the  pastime  of  scholars  and 
priests,  it  passed  into  the  hands  of  practical  men,  who 
would  cast  about  to  do  the  work  more  easily  and  rapidly 
than  by  the  tedious  way  of  handwriting.  AA'ooden  blocks 
as  large  as  a  book  page  were  first  made,  which  were  soon 
superseded  by  single  letters  of  movable  type ;  and  from  that 
time  books  could  be  made  quickly,  although  at  first  they 
were  not  beautiful  books,  like  those  made  by  the  painstak- 
ing monks,  with  their  many  colored  inks  and  slow,  patient 
pens. 

William  Caxton,  the  first  English  printer,  was  a  young 
man  when  he  went  to  live  in  Belgium,  as  appren- 
tice to  a  London  merchant.  He  stayed  there  till 
past  middle  life,  and  prospered  in  business.  He  was  al- 
ways of  a  book-loving  turn,  and  in  his  spare  time  copied 
manuscripts  for  his  own  delight.  It  was  thus  natural  that 
he  should  have  become  interested  in  the  new  art  of  print- 
ing which  had  begun  in  Germany,  and  flourished  all  about 
him ;  and  when  he  was  able  to  do  so,  he  gladly  dropped  the 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  8 1 

pen  and  took  up  the  quicker  mode  of  type-setting.  In 
1474  he  came  home  to  England  with  a  printing-press  of 
his  own,  and  began  business  in  one  of  the  buildings  belong- 
ing to  Westminster  Abbey.  Here,  under  the  walls  that  had 
sheltered  Chaucer  when  he  finished  The  Canterbury  Tales, 
Caxton  invited  all  who  desired  to  come  and  buy  his  books 
or  give  orders  for  printing.  All  sorts  of  people  answered 
this  invitation  ;  noble  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  realm 
were  ready  and  glad  to  lend  him  their  precious  manuscript 
books  to  be  copied  by  the  printing-press,  and  his  work 
was  honored  as  ought  to  be  the  work  of  a  man  who 
adds  faithfully  to  the  knowledge  and  progress  of  the 
world. 

The  list  of  the  books  which  Caxton  printed,  shows  good 
taste  on  the  part  of  our  first  printer  and  publisher.  They 
are  from  all  sources, — a  miscellaneous,  but  very  interesting 
library.  The  first  book  issued  was  a  work  on  Chess,  soon 
followed  by  a  translation  of  the  story  of  Jason  and  the 
Golden  Fleece.  He  also  published  the  first  edition  of 
Chaucer's  works,  and  the  first  edition  of  those  of  Gower  and 
John  Lydgate.  From  his  press  came  translations  of  Virgil's 
^neid,  Ovid's  Metamorphoses,  and  the  Consolation  of 
Boethius.  He  printed  the  tales  of  Reynard  the  Fox  so 
famous  even  to  this  day ;  he  gave  to  the  English  reader 
the  fables  of  ^sop,  and  also  the  Book  of  Good  Manners, 
and  The  Craft  to  Knoiu  well  hotu  to  Die.  Caxton  de- 
serves to  be  considered  more  than  a  mere  craftsman  in 
book-making.  Many  of  these  works  he  translated  him- 
self, and  by  using,  whenever  he  could,  the  simple  spoken 
English,  he  did  good  work  in  helping  to  form  and  make 
stable  our  language. 

One  of  the  most  important  books  to  our  literature  of 
all  the  number  issued  from  his  press  was  the 
Morte  d' Arthur,  —  the  old  stories  of  Arthur  and 
his  Knights,  which  were  translated  by  Sir  Thomas  Malory 
from  the  French.  In  this  book  we  have  again  the  stories 
which  belong  to  the  Arthurian  romance,  woven  into  one. 
Here  we  see,  more  fully  than  ever  before,  the  forms  of  King 

6 


82  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Arthur,  Merlin,  Sir  Launcelot  du  Lake,  Sir  Percivale,  Sir 
Gawaine,  Sir  Tristram,  and  the  peerless  and  perfect  Gala- 
had. Here  figure  the  beautiful  Queen  Guenever,  Isoud  the 
fair  and  Isoud  the  white-handed,  Elaine  the  mother  of 
Galahad,  and  Elaine  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat ;  and  many 
other  knights  and  ladies  who  form  part  of  this  fascinating 
romance. 

This  Alorte  (T Arthur,  a  collection  of  the  same  stories, 
added  to  and  enlarged,  that  had  been  made  by  Walter  Map 
and  his  contemporaries,  is  the  old  book  from  which  the 
modern  poet  Tennyson  has  drawn  some  of  the  beautiful 
stories  which  he  tells  in  his  Idyls  of  the  Ki/ii:;.  The  whole 
of  Malory's  book  is  a  prose  poem,  so  beautiful  that  I  am 
going  to  quote  for  you  one  chapter,  —  that  which  tells  of  the 
beautiful  Elaine  as  she  floats  down  to  Camelot  in  her 
funeral  barge. 

"  So  by  fortune  King  Arthur  and  the  Queen  Guenever  were 
speaking  together  at  a  window,  and  so  as  they  looked  into 
Thames  they  espied  this  black  barget,  and  had  marvel  what 
it  meant.  Then  the  King  called  Sir  Kay,  and  showed  it  him. 
'Sir,'  said  Sir  Kay,  'wit  you  well,  there  is  some  new  tidings.' 
*  Go  thitlier,'  said  the  King  to  Sir  Kay,  '  and  take  with  you 
Sir  Brandiles  and  Agravaine,  and  bring  me  ready  word  what 
is  there.'  Tlien  these  three  knights  departed,  and  came 
to  the  barget,  and  went  in ;  and  there  they  found  the  fairest 
corpse  lying  in  a  rich  bed,  and  a  poor  man  sitting  in  the 
barget's  end,  and  no  word  would  he  speak.  So  these  three 
knights  returned  unto  the  King  again,  and  told  him  what  they 
found. 

"  '  That  fair  corpse  will  I  sec,'  said  the  King.  And  so  then 
the  King  took  the  Queen  by  the  hand  and  went  thither.  Then 
he  made  the  barget  to  be  holden  fast,  and  the  King  and  tlie 
Queen  entered,  witli  certain  knights  with  them.  And  there  he 
saw  the  fairest  woman  lie  in  a  rich  bed,  covered  unto  her  middle 
with  many  rich  clothes,  and  all  was  of  cloth  of  gold,  and  she 
lay  as  though  she  had  smiled.  Then  the  Queen  espied  a  letter 
in  her  right  hand,  and  told  it  to  the  King.  Then  the  King  took 
it,  and  said :  '  Now  I  am  sure  this  letter  will  tell  what  she  was 
and  why  she  is  come  hither.'  .  .  .  And  so  when  the  King 
was  come  within  his  chamber  he  called  many  knights  about 
him,  and  said  he  would  wit  openly  what  was  written  within  that 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  83 

letter.     Then  the  King  brake  it,  and  made  a  clerk  to  read  it, 
and  this  was  the  intent  of  the  letter:  — 

'■'■  Most  Noble  Knight,  Sir  Laicncelot :  Now  hath  death 
made  us  two  at  debate  for  your  love  j  I  was  your  lover,  that 
men  called  the  fair  Maiden  of  Astolatj  therefore,  unto  all 
ladies  I  make  my  moan;  yet  pray  for  my  soul,  atid  bury  tne  at 
the  least,  and  offer  ye  my  mass-penny.  This  is  my  last  request. 
.  .  .  Pray  for  my  soul,  Sir  Launcelot,  as  thou  art  peerless, 

"  This  was  all  the  substance  of  the  letter.  And  when  it  was 
read,  the  King,  the  Queen,  and  all  the  knights  wept  for  pity  of 
the  doleful  complaints.  Then  was  Sir  Launcelot  sent  for.  And 
when  he  was  come,  King  Arthur  made  the  letter  to  be  read  to 
him ;  when  Sir  Launcelot  heard  it,  word  by  word,  he  said,  '  My 
Lord  Arthur,  wit  ye  well,  I  am  right  heavy  of  the  death  of  this 
fair  damsel.  God  knoweth,  I  was  never  causer  of  her  death  by 
my  willing,  and  that  will  I  report  me  to  her  own  brother.  .  .  . 
I  will  not  say  nay,  but  she  was  both  fair  and  good,  and  much 
was  I  beholden  to  her;  but  she  loved  me  out  of  measure.'  'Ye 
might  have  showed  her,'  said  the  Queen,  'some  bounty  and 
gentleness  that  might  have  preserved  her  life.'  '  Madam,' 
answered  Launcelot,  '  she  would  none  other  way  be  answered 
but  that  she  would  be  my  wife,  or  else  my  love ;  and  of  these 
two  I  would  not  grant  her.  .  .  .  For,  madam,  I  love  not  to  be 
constrained  to  love,  for  love  must  arise  out  of  the  heart,  and  not 
by  no  constraint.'  'That  is  true,'  said  the  King  and  many 
knights;  'Love  is  free  in  himself,  and  never  will  be  bounden, 
for  where  he  is  bounden  he  loseth  himself.'  '  Then,'  said  the 
King  to  Sir  Launcelot,  '  it  will  be  your  worship  that  ye  oversee 
that  she  be  interred  worshipfully.'  '  Sir,'  said  Launcelot,  '  that 
shall  be  done  as  I  can  best  devise.'  .  .  .  And  so  upon  the 
morn  she  was  interred  richly,  and  Sir  Launcelot  offered  her 
mass-penn}',  and  all  at  that  time  the  knights  of  the  Table 
Round  that  were  there  with  Sir  Launcelot  offered.^ 

Malory's  Morte  a'' Arthur  was  the  last  great  book,  and  the 
most  famous,  that  the  fifteenth  century  produced.  But 
although  this  century  had  given  to  the  world  so  little  litera- 
ture, it  had  seen  two  great  events  which  influenced  the  whole 
future  of  literature.  Of  one  of  these,  the  invention  of  print- 
ing, I  have  already  spoken.     The  second  was  the  discovery 

1  Mortc  if  Arthur,  chap,  xx.,  book  xviii. 


$4  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

of  the  New  ^Vorld  by  Columbus,  —  an  event  so  strange  and 
full  of  mystery  that  it  must  have  stimulated  the  imagination 
of  the  dullest  and  most  commonplace  man,  and  made  for 
the  time  a  place  for  poetry  in  the  most  matter-of-fact  brain. 
Early  in  the  sixteenth  century,  books  of  voyages  to  the  New 
World  began  to  appear  in  Italy  and  Germany,  and  the 
stories  of  men  who  had  sailed  in  unknown  seas,  under  skies 
glittering  with  new  stars,  excited  the  wonder  of  all  who  read 
them.  English  sailors  who  had  voyaged  with  Sebastian 
Cabot  to  these  new  lands,  brought  back  to  home-ports  tales 
rich  in  wonders.  Thus  the  discovery  of  America  was  sure 
to  work  upon  literature,  although,  in  an  age  without  tele- 
graphs or  steam-engines  or  newspapers,  the  strongest  forces 
must  work  more  slowly  than  in  our  time,  and  the  immediate 
results  of  such  discoveries  as  those  of  printing  and  the  New 
World  were  not  seen  in  a  day. 


XV. 

On  Literature  in  the  Reign  of  Henry  VIII. ;  More's 
Utopu;  Tyndale's  Bible;  Skelton,  the  Court  Poet; 
THE  Sonnets  of  Surrey  and  Wvatt. 

TPIE  reign  of  Henry  VIII.  covers  nearly  the  first  half  of 
the  sixteenth  century ;  yet  although  the  last  half  of 
this  century  is  perhaps  the  most  glorious  of  any  period  in 
our  literature,  its  first  years  do  not  shine  with  the  promise 
of  that  after-glory.  There  are  a  few  great  names,  but  not 
that  crowd  of  rare  spirits  that  make  the  age  of  Queen 
Elizabeth  so  resplendent.  The  great  event  of  Henry's 
reign,  however,  —  the  separation  of  the  Church  of  England 
from  that  of  Rome,  —  did  much  to  inspire  the  thought  of 
the  age  which  followed.  Although  Henry  did  not  greatly 
care  for  the  freedom  of  any  man  except  himself,  and  meant 
to  hold  a  tight  rein  over  other  men's  actions  and  con- 
sciences, still  he  took  a  great  stride  towards  freedom  when 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  8$ 

he  made  the  Church  of  England  independent  of  that  of 
Rome ;  and  all  advances  towards  freedom  are  sure  to 
quicken  the  spirit  of  fine  literature,  which  is  the  free  ex- 
pression of  the  highest  thought  of  the  best  men  of  the  age. 
Let  me  tell  you  briefly  of  the  greatest  men  and  the  best 
work  done  in  literature  from  the  opening  of  the  century 
to  the  time  when  the  great  Queen  Elizabeth  took  her 
father's  seat  as  an  English  sovereign. 

The  noblest  and  most  memorable  work  of  the  age  was 
done  by  Willla.m  Tyndale,  who  undertook  the  translation 
of  the  Bible.  His  name  deserves  to  be  set  high  in  the 
annals  of  English  literature  and  language.  Tyndale  was 
only  a  poor  tutor  in  the  house  of  a  nobleman  in  Glou- 
cestershire, when  one  day  as  they  sat  at  table,  a  religious 
discussion  arose,  in  which  a  bigoted  priest  who  was  present 
said  dogmatically,  "  Better  be  without  God's  laws  than  the 
Pope's."  Tyndale  took  fire  at  this,  and  rising,  grandly 
said  :  ''In  the  name  of  God  I  defy  the  Pope  and  his  laws ; 
and  if  God  spares  my  life,  I  will  cause  the  boy  who  drives 
the  plough  to  know  more  of  God's  laws  than  either  you 
or  the  Pope." 

A  few  years  later,  in  spite  of  persecution,  he  published 
his  translation  of  the  New  Testament  into  English. 
I   think  that   we   may   decide    that   this   was  the 
greatest   literary  work  between  the  time  of  Chaucer  and 
Spenser.      The   Bible,    made    accessible   to   the    common 
people,  was  not  only  a  religious  book,  but  a  fountain-head 
of  literature.     The  daily  speech  of  men  and  women  was 
made  rich  by  the  introduction  into  it  of  the  phraseology  of 
the  Scriptures  rendered  into  the  homely  and  eloquent  Eng- 
lish which  Tyndale  used  ;  and  from  that  day  to  this,  apt  and 
fitting  quotations  from  the  ]>ible   have  been  so  imbedded 
in  common  speech   that  we  use  them  often  with- 
out  being  aware  of  their  source.      Tyndale  died 
in   Holland  at  the  stake,   a  martyr  for  the  work  he  did, 
and  the  opinions  he  held. 

Another  noble  gentleman,  who  also  died  for  loyalty  to 
his  opinions,  very  near  the  time  of  Tyndale's  martyrdom. 


S6  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

was  Sir  Thomas  More,  one  of  the  saintliest  and  most  lov- 
able characters  in  all  this  time.  He  did  not  follow  the 
king  in  his  separation  from  the  Church  of  Rome, 
but  remained  a  stanch  Catholic,  and  avowed 
his  religious  scruples  against  the  divorce  of  the  king 
from  Queen  Katharine,  and  the  marriage  with  Anne 
Boleyn.  He  was  executed  on  Tower  Hill,  dying  with  the 
serenity  which  became  such  a  noble  and  true  man.  As 
he  laid  his  head  upon  the  block,  he  carefully  put  away  his 
long  full  beard  from  under  the  axe,  saying  simply,  "  This 
should  not  be  cut;  it  has  never  committed  treason." 

His  great  book,  Utopia,  was  written  in  Latin,  —  a  language 
which  was  still,  and  for  a  long  time  after,  used  by  scholars 
in  prose  writings.  Utopia  was  an  imaginary  land,  a  won- 
derful country  whose  society  and  laws  were  ideally  per- 
fect. A  sailor,  sunbrowned  and  strange  as  Coleridge's 
Ancient  Mariner,  who  says  he  has  been  on  voyages  to  the 
New  World  with  the  great  discoverer  Amerigo  Vespucci, 
gives  the  account  of  this  wonderful  country  and  its  ro- 
mantic discovery.  In  this  fabled  Utopia,  More  could  em- 
body all  his  ideas  of  a  perfect  commonwealth,  and  so  show 
by  contrast  the  defects  in  laws  and  social  conditions  in 
England.  And  his  ideas  of  religious  charity  and  social 
reform  are  so  generous  and  grand  that  this  nineteenth 
century  has  not  yet  excelled  them.  But  when  he  pictures 
an  ideal  city,  and  his  highest  conception  of  the  material 
comforts  of  life,  we  shall  find  that  we  have  to-day  out- 
stripped his  best  imaginings.  For  instance,  he  thus  de- 
scribes Amaurote,  the  chief  city  of  the  Utopians :  — 

"  The  city  is  compassed  about  with  a  high  and  thick  stone 
wall  full  of  turrets  and  bulwarks.  A  dry  ditcli,  but  deep  and 
broad  and  overgrown  with  bushes,  briers,  and  thorns,  goeth 
about  three  sides  or  quarters  of  the  city.  To  the  fourth  side 
the  river  itself  serveth  for  a  ditch.  .  .  .  The  streets  be  twenty 
feet  broad.  On  the  l)ack  side  of  the  houses,  through  the  whole 
Icn.L,nh  of  the  street,  lie  large  gardens.  .  .  .  The  houses  be  curi- 
ously buildcd  after  a  gorgeous  and  gallant  sort,  with  three 
stories,  one  over  another.  The  outsidcs  of  the  walls  l)c  made 
of    hard   plaster,   or  else    of    brick,  and   the  inner  sides  well 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  87 

strengthened  with  timber-work.  .  .  .  They  keep  the  wind  out 
of  their  windows  with  glass,  for  it  is  there  much  used,  and 
some  here  also  with  fine  hnen  cloth  dipped  in  oil  or  amber, 
and  that  for  two  commodities,  for  by  this  means  more  light 
Cometh  in,  and  the  wind  is  better  kept  out." 

This  picture  of  the  city  and  its  houses,  while  it  may 
surpass  in  comfort  those  in  More's  day,  does  not  excite 
any  special  envy  in  us ;  but  when  he  speaks  of  justice 
among  men,  and  religious  tolerance,  then  he  rises  to  heights 
as  grand  as  we  have  attained.  And  at  the  close  he  makes 
a  noble  plea  for  laboring  men,  whose  rights  at  that  time 
had  been  little  heard  of. 

"  What  justice  is  this,"  he  bursts  out,  "  that  a  goldsmith,  a 
usurer,  or,  to  be  short,  any  of  those  which  do  nothing  at  all, 
or  else  what  they  do  is  such  as  is  not  necessary  to  the 
commonwealth,  should  have  a  pleasant  and  a  wealthy  living 
either  by  idleness  or  by  unnecessary  business,  while  in  the  mean 
time  poor  laborers,  carters,  ironsmiths,  carpenters,  and  plough- 
laborers,  by  so  great  and  continual  toil  as  drawing  and  bearing 
beasts  be  scant  able  to  sustain,  and  again  so  necessary  toil  that 
without  it  no  commonwealth  were  able  to  continue  and  endure 
one  year,  should  yet  get  so  hard  and  poor  a  living,  and  live  so 
wretched  and  miserable  a  life  that  the  state  and  condition  of 
the  laboring  beasts  may  seem  much  better  and  wealthier.  .  .  . 
Is  this  not  an  unjust  and  unkind  public  weal  which  gives  great 
fees  and  rewards  to  gentletncn,  as  they  call  them,  and  to  gold- 
smiths and  to  such  other  which  be  either  idle  persons,  or  else 
only  flatterers  and  devisers  of  vain  pleasures,  and  of  the  con- 
trary part  maketh  no  gentle  provision  for  ploughmen,  colliers, 
laborers,  carters,  ironsmiths,  and  carpenters  ?  .  .  .  Therefore, 
when  I  consider  and  weigh  in  my  mind  all  these  common- 
wealths which  nowadays  anywhere  do  flourish,  so  God  help 
me,  I  can  perceive  nothing  but  a  conspiracy  of  rich  men, 
procuring  their  commodities  under  the  name  and  title  of  the 
commonwealth." 

These  generous  words  from  the  pen  of  a  man  in  high 
position,  who  might  easily  have  been  blind  to  the  misery 
of  those  who  were  poorer  and  weaker  than  he,  give  Sir 
Thomas  More  a  warm  place  in  my  liking,  and  the  Utopia 
a  high  place  among  the  books  of  the  world. 


88  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

John  Skelton  comes  in  as  court  poet  of  Henry  VIII., 

although  I  fancy  him  fitter  for  a  bar-room  than  the  court, 

—  a   man  of  coarse  manners  and  gross  wit,   al- 

1460-1529      ,         ,     ,       ,     ,  •   ,    ,  J  J     J     , 

though   he   had   spnghthness    and    a   good   deal 

of  humor.  He  had  been  tutor  to  Henry  VIII.  before  Henry 
became  king,  and  was  high  in  favor  at  court.  He  was 
a  clever  rhymester,  and  wrote  verses  full  of  sparkling  vi- 
vacity. Nobody  before  his  time  had  shown  how  flexible 
the  English  language  was,  and  how  it  could  be  twisted 
hither  and  thither  in  rhyme.  But  we  should  not  now 
read  Skelton's  verses  with  much  interest.  This  is  partly 
because  he  was  a  writer  of  satire,  and  satire,  however 
clever,  is  rarely  interesting  in  any  time  but  that  in  which 
it  is  written.  One  of  his  satires  was  a  scorching  attack 
upon  the  great  Cardinal  Wolsey,  called  Why  come  ye  not 
to  Court? 

The  Book  of  Philip  Sparrow  is  generally  considered  his 
most  poetical  work.  It  is  a  lament  for  a  dead  sparrow, 
which  has  so  much  ease  and  grace  in  rhyming  that  it  has 
never  lost  its  charm.  But  the  most  entertaining  of  his 
poems,  to  me,  is  The  Crown  of  Laurel.  In  this  the  author 
goes  to  sleep  under  an  oak,  and  in  his  dream  hears  an  argu- 
ment between  the  Goddess  Pallas  and  the  Queen  of  Fame 
as  to  whether  Skelton  shall  have  a  place  in  the  court  of 
the  latter.  After  a  long  discussion,  all  the  great  poets  of 
the  world  are  summoned  to  decide  the  matter.  They 
come  in  stately  train,  led  by  Apollo.  Among  them,  says 
the  poem,  — 

"  I  saw  Gower,  that  first  garnished  our  English  rude; 
And  Master  Chaucer,  that  nobly  cnterprized 
How  that  our  English  might  freshly  be  ennewed; 
The  monk  of  Bury  after  them  ensued, 
Dan  John  Lydgate  :  these  English  poets  three, 
As  I  imagined,  repaired  to  me." 

The  author  is  admitted  into  the  House  of  Fame  on  an 
equality  with  these  three  great  poets,  and  shortly  after  is 
called  upon  to  praise  a  bevy  of  fair  ladies,  attendants  of  the 
Countess  of  Surrey.     He  praises   these  ladies  in  different 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  89 

odes,  dedicated  to  each  by  name.  Some  of  tliese  verses 
are  very  pretty.  He  writes  in  this  way  to  Lady  Isabel 
Pennell.     He  begins  by  comparing  her  to  — 

"  The  fragrant  camomile,  The  columbine,  the  nepte, 

The  ruddy  rosary,  The  gillyflower  well  set, 

The  sovereign  rosemary,  The  proper  violet." 
The  pretty  strawberry, 

And  tells  her  :  — 

"  Your  color  Star  of  the  morrow  gray. 

Is  like  the  daisy  flower  The  blossom  of  the  spring, 

After  the  April  shower,  The  freshest  flower  of  May." 

Mistress  Margaret  Hussey  is  also  addressed  as — • 

"  Merry  Margaret,  Her  demeaning, 

As  midsummer  flower.  In  everything 

Gentle  as  falcon  Far,  far  passing 

Or  hawk  of  the  tower.  That  I  can  endite. 

With  solace  and  gladness,  Or  suffice  to  write, 
Much  mirth  and  no  madness,  Of  merry  Margaret 

All  good  and  no  badness  ;  As  midsummer  flower. 

So  joyously,  Gentle  as  falcon 

So  maidenly,  Or  hawk  of  the  tower.  " 
So  womanly 

I  know  no  other  instance  of  a  poet  so  cleverly  exalting 
himself  as  Skelton  does  in  this  poem  of  The  Crown  of 
Laurel, 

Two  gallant  and  courtly  figures  come  next  in  sight.    They 

are  Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey,  and  his  friend,    1518-1547 

Sir  Thomas  Wv ait.     These  gentlemen,  familiar 

1503-1542 
with  all  the  polite   learning  of  their  time,  were 

masters  of  verse-making.  They  introduced  the  form  of 
the  Italian  sonnet,  and  have  the  credit  of  having  polished 
and  improved  poetic  expression,  introducing,  more  than 
it  ever  before  had  prevailed,  the  melody  of  the  Southern 
poetry  into  English  verse.  Wyatt  wrote  many  songs  and 
sonnets.  The  titles  to  some  of  these  are  ludicrously  senti- 
mental. There  is  one  "On  my  love  that  pricked  her  finger 
with  a  needle  ;  "  another,  "  On  my  love  from  whom  he  had 
her  gloves  ;  "  and  still  another,  "  The  lover  compareth  his 


90 


FAMILIAR    TALKS 


heart  to  an  overcharged  gun."     Could  anything  in  poetry 
be  more  overstrained  ? 

Poor  Surrey  was  another  of  the  victims  of  Henry  VIII., 
and  was  beheaded  on  Tower  Hill ;  while  Wyatt,  who  died  a 
little  earlier  than  Surrey,  narrowly  escaped  the  same  fate, 
and  lay  for  a  time  in  prison,  in  great  danger  from  that 
dreadful  axe  in  the  Tower.  Of  these  two  poets,  Surrey 
writes  the  better  verses.  A  great  many  of  them  are  dedi- 
cated to  Geraldine,  to  whom  he  writes  love-verses ;  although 
as  this  Geraldine  was  only  thirteen  years  old,  and  probably 
could  not  understand  what  the  poet  meant  by  his  protesta- 
tions of  devotion,  there  can  be  nothing  very  serious  in  the 
compliments  he  pays.  Probably  Surrey  thought  Geraldine 
was  as  pretty  a  name  to  figure  in  his  verses  as  were  the 
Lauras  or  Beatrices  of  the  Italian  poets  whom  he  imitates. 
We  will  close  this  Talk  by  reading  one  of  his  songs  to 
Geraldine  :  — 

A    PRAISE    OF     HIS    LADY,    WHEREIN    HE     REPROVETII     THEM     THAT 
COMPARE  THEIR    LADIES   WITH   HIS. 

Give  place,  ye  lovers,  here  before 
That  spent  your  boasts  and  brags  in  vain; 

My  lady's  beauty  passcth  more 
The  best  of  yours,  I  dare  well  sayn. 

Than  doth  the  sun  the  candle  light, 

Or  brightest  day  the  darkest  night. 

And  thereto  hath  a  troth  as  just 

As  had  rcnelo])c  the  fair, 
For  what  she  saith  ye  may  it  trust 

As  it  by  writing  sealed  were; 
And  virtues  hath  she  many  moe 
Than  I  with  pen  have  skill  to  show. 

I  could  rehearse,  if  that  I  would, 

The  whole  effect  of  Nature's  plaint, 
When  she  had  lost  the  perfect  mould 

The  like  to  whom  she  could  not  paint ; 
With  wringing  hands  how  she  did  cry  J 
And  what  she  said,  I  know  it,  I. 

I  know  she  swore  with  raging  mind, 
Her  kingdom  only  set  apart ; 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  9 1 

There  was  no  loss  by  law  of  kind 

That  could  have  gone  so  near  her  heart ; 
And  this  was  chiefly  all  her  pain, 
She  could  not  make  the  like  again. 

Since  Nature  thus  gave  her  the  praise 

To  be  the  chiefest  work  she  wrought, 
In  faith,  methink  some  better  ways 

On  your  behalf  might  well  be  sought 
Than  to  compare,  as  ye  have  done, 
To  match  the  candle  with  the  sun. 


PART    III. 

FROM    SPENSER    AND    SHAKESPEARE 
TO  MILTON. 

1550   TO    1608. 


THE  GOLDEN  AGE  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY. 


INTRODUCTORY. 

IN  this  third  division  of  my  Talks,  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
about  the  principal  writers  who  appeared  from  the 
time  Queen  Elizabeth  ascended  the  English  throne,  until 
the  end  of  the  reign  of  James  I.  There  is  no  period  of 
our  literature  which  includes  so  many  great  names.  Within 
the  limits  of  a  little  more  than  half  a  century,  Spenser, 
Shakspeare,  Bacon,  and  Milton  were  born.  And  besides 
these  four  names  that  shine  with  such  immortal  lustre,  are 
other  names  of  poets,  scholars,  soldiers,  discoverers,  states- 
men, and  orators,  who  form  a  group  unequalled  before  or 
since,  in  England's  history. 

Queen  Elizabeth  herself  is  a  fitting  central  figure  in  this 
age.  When  she  came  to  the  throne,  a  young  and  beautiful 
woman,  after  the  stormy  struggles  between  Catholic  and 
Protestant  in  her  father's  and  sister's  reigns,  she  seemed  to 
bring  peace  and  prosperity  to  the  land.  Her  court  and  her 
people  welcomed  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  creature  almost 
divine.  From  the  first  this  ideal  sovereign  inspired  the 
poet's  pen,  and  she  appears  in  his  verse  as  a  being  glorified 
by  all  that  myth  or  legend  or  his  own  fancy  can  suggest. 

Elizabeth  had  been  educated  by  one  of  the  most  famous 
of  schoolmasters,  good  Roger  Ascham,  who  had  trained 
her  in  Greek  and  Latin  and  other  branches  of  learning.  She 
could  speak  the  principal  court  languages  of  Europe,  and, 
better  than  that,  could  use  her  own  language  forcibly  and 
well;  she  was  well  read  in  the  current  literature  of  her 
time ;  interested  in  the  rising  poets  who  sought  her  pat- 
ronage ;  and,  indeed,  had  tried  her  own  fair  hand  at  verse- 
making,  and  on  occasion  could  turn  a  clever  epigram  in 
rhyme. 


96  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

It  was  the  tendency  of  Elizabeth's  reign  to  bring  in  luxury 
of  living  and  all  kinds  of  elegancies  in  dress  and  manners. 
The  queen  was  passionately  fond  of  fine  clothes  and  fine 
surroundings.  She  had  in  her  wardrobe,  for  one  item  of 
dress  alone,  throe  thousand  gowns,  and  her  lords  and  ladies 
were  not  far  behind  her  in  extravagance.  One  gets  in  his- 
tory some  idea  of  the  splendid  dresses  of  her  courtiers. 
One  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's  portraits  was  painted  in  a 
white  satin  doublet  richly  embroidered,  "  with  a  great 
string  of  pearls  round  his  neck,  each  big  as  a  robin's  egg," 
and  a  hat  with  a  long  feather,  f^istened  by  a  great  blazing 
ruby.  Walter  Scott,  who  writes  the  romance  of  history, 
but  always  keeps  close  to  the  fact,  tells  us  of  the  Earl  of 
Leicester's  handsome  clothes  in  his  novel  of  Kcnilworth. 

The  young  Englishman  when  he  left  college  was  sent  to 
France  or  Italy  to  finish  his  education  and  to  polish  and  re- 
fine his  manners,  and  he  brought  back  with  him  all  sorts  of 
new  fashions.  The  young  travellers  from  England  were 
noted  for  following  all  the  extravagances  then  in  vogue. 
Old  John  Lyly  advises  the  young  man,  "  T>et  not  your  minds 
be  carried  away  with  vain  delights,  as  with  travelling  into  far 
and  strange  countries,  where  you  will  see  more  wickedness 
than  learn  virtue  and  wit.  Neither  with  costly  attire  of 
the  new  cut,  the  Dutch  hat,  the  French  hose,  the  Spanish 
rapier,  and  the  Italian  hilt."  And  Shakespeare  hits  off 
this  weakness  of  the  time  in  Portia's  merry  description  of 
the  English  lord  :  "  How  oddly  he  is  suited  !  I  think  he 
bought  his  doublet  in  Italy,  his  round  hose  in  France,  his 
bonnet  in  Germany,  and  his  behavior  everywhere." 

But  the  graduates  from  Oxford  and  Cambridge  brought 
back  from  Italy  more  than  fine  clothes  and  polished  man- 
ners, they  brought  the  knowledge  of  a  literature  which 
worked  a  perceptible  change  on  their  own.  Italian  poetry, 
even  in  Chaucer's  time,  had  exerted  an  influence  over  Eng- 
lish poetry ;  later,  Surrey  and  Wyatt,  as  we  have  just  seen, 
had  been  disciy)les  of  the  Italian  school.  But  never  was 
this  influence  so  strongly  marked  as  in  this  era  we  are  now 
entering.     A  flood  of  romances,  in  prose  and  verse,  from 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  97 

the  rich  fountain  of  Italian  literature,  poured  into  England. 
It  seemed  as  if  all  the  elements  that  could  gratify  the  taste, 
stimulate  the  imagination,  and  enrich  the  fancy  were 
brought  all  at  once  to  bear  upon  the  age  that  produced 
both  Shakespeare  and  Spenser. 

In  an  age  so  crowded  with  great  writers,  both  in  prose 
and  poetry,  it  is  hard  to  decide  which  we  shall  begin  to 
talk  about.  But  in  my  imagination  the  great  figures  of  the 
time  divide  themselves  into  groups  :  Sir  Philip  Sidney  and 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  with  one  or  two  minor  poets,  form  a 
circle  about  their  grand  central  figure,  Edmund  Spenser ; 
next  to  this  group,  apart  in  solitary  greatness,  stands  Lord 
Bacon ;  then  follows  Shakespeare,  towering  hke  a  Colossus 
above  the  crowd  of  dramatic  poets  that  surround  him  ;  and 
last  come  the  lyric  poets,  the  singers  whose  gay  music  is 
heard  all  through  the  century  from  the  time  of  Elizabeth  to 
that  of  Charles  II.  So,  beginning  with  Spenser  and  the 
figures  that  attend  upon  him,  we  will  enter  upon  the  Golden, 
or,  as  it  is  generally  called,  the  Elizabethan,  Age  of  English 
poetry. 


XVI. 

On  Edmund  Spenser. 

EDMUND  SPENSER  is  the  second  great  English  poet 
in  the  line  which  begins  with  Geoffrey  Chaucer.  It 
was  almost  two  hundred  years  after  Chaucer  15501  egg 
had  laid  down  his  pen,  when  Spenser's  great 
poem.  The  Fairy  Queen,  was  published.  It  is  not  every 
generation,  not  every  century,  even,  that  produces  a  great 
poet. 

About  the  events  of  Spenser's  early  life  there  is  the  same 
vagueness  and  uncertainty  that  we  find  when  we  come  to 
study  the  biographies  of  all  our  great  poets.  Most  of  the 
writers  who  undertake  to  tell  us  of  the  lives  of  Chaucer, 

7 


98  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Spenser,  or  Shakespeare,  make  tiresome  researches  into  fam- 
ily history,  without  much  result.  ICvidently  Genius  is  quite 
independent  of  genealogies,  and  the  great  poet  does  not, 
like  the  snail,  carry  his  house  on  his  back. 

Spenser  was  born  in  London  in  1552,  or  very  near  that 
date,  and  began  his  education  at  a  I>ondon  grammar-school. 
He  went  to  Cambridge  early,  but  left  before  his  studies  were 
completed,  —  forced  to  do  so,  some  of  his  biographers 
think,  by  the  poverty  of  his  purse.  From  college  he  went 
to  the  North  of  England,  and  fell  in  love  there  with  a 
beautiful  Rosalinde  (her  last  name  no  one  has  been  able  to 
find  out  with  certainty),  who  seems  to  have  been  unable 
to  love  him  in  return ;  and  to  give  vent  to  his  disap- 
pointment, he  wrote  The  ShephcnVs  Calendar,  which  first 
proved  that  he  was  a  poet.  Let  us  be  grateful  to  the  fair 
Rosalinde  that  she  was  indifferent  to  the  poet,  since  we 
reap  the  benefit  of  her  indifference. 

The  Shepherd's  Calendar  is  dedicated  to  Sir  Philip  Sid- 
ney, who  was  one  of  Spenser's  best  friends  and  patrons. 
Sidne}',  Raleigh,  and  Spenser  were  very  near  each  other  in 
age,  Sidney  being  about  a  year  younger,  and  Raleigh  less 
than  a  year  older  than  the  great  poet.  One  of  the  finest 
things  about  these  two  men  is  that  they  were  generous 
friends  of  Spenser :  and  there  can  be  no  better  proof  of 
Spenser's  friendship  for  them  than  his  dedication  of  The 
Fairy  Queen  to  Walter  Raleigh,  and  Astrophel,  a  lament 
which  he  wrote  on  Sidney's  death. 

When  Spenser  was  about  twenty-eight,  he  went  to  Ireland 
as  secretary  to  the  Lord- Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  Lord  Arthur 
Grey.  There,  after  a  time,  a  castle  and  some  lands  were 
given  him,  the  share  of  a  confiscated  estate  of  a  famous 
Irish  rebel.  In  this  castle  —  Kilcolman,  on  the  banks  of 
the  river  Mulla  —  he  lived  happily,  working  upon  his  great- 
est of  poems.  The  Fairy  Queen.  He  had  been  more  for- 
tunate in  a  second  love  than  in  the  affair  with  Rosalinde, 
and  was  married  to  a  lovely  wife,  to  whom  he  wrote  an 
Epithalamion,  which  is  one  of  the  grandest  wedding  hymns 
ever  written.     Here  in  his  beautiful  retirement,  Sir  Walter 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  99 

Raleigh,  then  one  of  the  officers  in  the  English  army  in 
Ireland,  paid  him  a  visit.  I  fancy  the  two  friends  lying  at 
ease  on  the  green  banks  under  the  trees  that  bordered  the 
Mulla,  while  Spenser  read  extracts  from  The  Fairy  Queen, 
and  Raleigh  praised  it  and  answered  with  bits  of  verse  of 
his  own  making.  There,  doubtless,  they  discussed  poetry, 
politics,  their  common  friends  in  London,  and  all  the  gos- 
sip of  the  time.  It  was  not  long  after  Raleigh's  visit  that 
Spenser  published  the  first  part  of  The  Fairy  Queen.  He 
went  to  London,  and  Queen  Elizabeth  gave  him  a  pension 
for  his  verses,  which  they  richly  deserved  for  the  fine  praises 
of  her  which  the  poem  contains. 

Spenser  kept  his  home  in  Ireland  for  twelve  years, 
although  he  was  in  England  during  that  period  for  a  year  or 
two  at  a  time.  Towards  the  end  of  the  year  1597  his  affairs 
looked  prosperous ;  the  queen  had  recommended  him  to  a 
good  appointment,  the  first  half  of  The  Fairy  Queen  was 
published,  and  the  last  half  begun,  when  a  fresh  rebellion 
broke  out  in  Ireland.  Spenser's  house  was  burned,  and  he 
and  his  family  were  forced  to  fly.  It  is  reported  that  his 
new-born  infant  was  left  in  the  castle  in  this  hurried  flight, 
and  perished  in  the  flames.  He  came  to  London  over- 
whelmed by  all  these  troubles,  and  died  a  few  months  later, 
broken-hearted  and  in  poverty,  and  was  laid  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  near  Chaucer. 

Besides  The  ShepheriVs  Calendar  and  Tiie  Fairy  Queen, 
Spenser  wrote  many  other  poems.  The  most  beautiful 
among  these  shorter  works  is  Muiopotnios,  or  the  Tale  of 
a  Butterfly.  This  is  like  a  picture,  for  brilliancy  of  color  and 
description.  If  you  want,  with  little  study,  to  know 
Spenser's  quality  as  a  poet,  read  this  poem,  Astrophel,  and 
a  few  extracts  from  The  Fairy  Queen,  and  you  will  get  an 
excellent  idea  of  him. 

His  poem  of  poems,  The  Fairy  Queen,  stands  as  one 
of  the  monuments  of  literature.  There  are  few  persons  who 
have  read  it  through,  and  their  number  is  likely  to  grow 
less  as  the  years  go  by.  It  is  useless  for  any  one  to  read 
poetry  merely  for  the  sake  of  saying  he  has  read  it,  and 


lOO  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

I  certainly  should  advise  no  one  to  take  up  this  poem 
unless  he  reads  it  purely  for  the  enjoyment  of  it.  To  those 
who  do  enjoy  it,  there  is  no  need  to  say  anything  in  its 
praise.  To  those  who  would  find  the  entire  poem  tedious, 
—  and  I  think  perhaps  these  will  form  the  larger  number,  — 
I  will  briefly  tell  its  plan,  and  give  a  few  extracts  as  illustra- 
tions of  the  style. 

In  his  dedication  to  Raleigh,  Spenser  himself  gives  his 
design.  This  was  to  write  a  poem  in  twelve  books,  each 
book  representing  some  high  virtue.  Thus  the  Red-Cross 
Knight,  in  the  first  book,  is  Holiness ;  in  the  second  book, 
Sir  Guyon  is  Temperance  ;  in  the  third  book,  Britomart,  the 
heroine,  illustrates  Chastity ;  Cambell  and  Triamond  are  the 
heroes  of  the  fourth  book,  the  Legend  of  Friendship ;  Sir 
Artegall,  in  the  fifth  book,  represents  Justice ;  and  Sir  Cal- 
idore,  in  the  sixth  and  last,  is  the  embodiment  of  Courtesy. 
Spenser  had  planned  to  write  twelve  books,  but  finished 
only  the  first  six,  leaving  a  few  fragments  towards  the  last 
half  of  his  work. 

The  stanza  in  which  the  poem  is  written  has  since  his 
time  been  called  Spense7-ian.  It  was  the  eight-line  stanza 
used  by  the  poets  of  Italy,  to  which  a  ninth  line  was  added 
by  Spenser,  which  gave  it  its  name. 

The  poem  is  an  allegory,  and  you  will  find  in  some 
editions  of  the  work  an  explanation  of  the  real  events  which 
are  told  in  allegorical  form,  and  the  names  of  the  real  per- 
sons who  are  meant  under  the  names  of  Arthur,  Sir  Guyon, 
Timeas,  Amoret,  Belphoebe,  and  the  rest.  For  my  part, 
I  prefer  to  read  Spenser  for  his  poetry,  and  not  for  his 
allegory,  and  therefore  I  attempt  no  explanation  of  it 
here. 

The  first  book  of  The  Fairy  Queen  tells  the  story  of 
Una,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  figures  in  all  the  poem. 
The  picture  of  the  gentle  knight  "pricking  on  the  plain," 
while  a  gentle  lady  rides  close  beside  him  upon  a  lowly 
ass  "  more  white  than  snow,"  is  the  very  first  picture  that 
catches  our  eyes  as  we  open  the  book.  Soon  after  we  see 
Una  separated  from  her  knight,  who  has  been  drawn  away 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  lOI 

from   his  true   lady  by  an    enchantress  who  assumes  her 
shape,  and  Una  is  described  as  in  search  of  him  :  — 

"Yet  she,  most  faithfull  ladie,  all  this  while, 
Forsaken,  woeful),  solitarie  mayd. 
Far  from  all  peoples'  preace,  as  in  exile, 
In  vvildernesse  and  wastfull  deserts  strayd 
To  seeke  her  knight,  who  subtily  betrayd, 
Through  that  late  vision  which  th'  enchaunter  wrought, 
Had  her  abandoned  ;  she,  of  naught  afrayd, 
Through  woods  and  wastnes  wide  him  daily  sought, 
Yet  wished  tydinges  none  of  him  unto  her  brought. 

"  One  day,  nigh  wearie  of  the  yrkesome  way, 
From  her  unhastie  beast  she  did  alight. 
And  on  the  grasse  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay, 
In  secrete  shadow,  far  from  all  men's  sight. 
From  her  fayre  head  her  fillet  she  undight 
And  layd  her  stole  aside  ;  her  angel's  face, 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven,  shyned  bright, 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place  : 
Did  never  mortall  eye  behold  such  heavenly  grace. 

"  It  fortuned,  out  of  the  thickest  wood 
A  ramping  lyon  rushed  suddeinly. 
Hunting  full  greedy  after  salvage  blood. 
Soone  as  the  royall  virgin  he  did  spy. 
With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  greedily, 
To  have  at  once  devourd  her  tender  corse ; 
But  to  the  pray,  when  as  he  drew  more  ny, 
His  bloody  rage  asvvaged  with  remorse, 
And  with  the  sight  amazd,  forgat  his  furious  forse. 

"Instead  thereof  he  kist  her  wearie  feet, 
And  lickt  her  lilly  hands  with  fawning  tong, 
As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did  weet. 
O,  how  can  beautie  maister  the  most  strong. 
And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  wrong  ! 
Whose  yielded  pryde  and  proud  submission, 
Still  dreading  death,  when  she  had  marked  long, 
Her  hart  gan  melt  in  great  compassion. 
And  drizling  teares  did  shed  for  pure  affection. 


"  The  lyon  would  not  leave  her  desolate, 
But  with  her  went  along,  as  a  strong  gard 
Of  her  chast  person,  and  a  faythfull  mate 
Of  her  sad  troubles  and  misfortunes  hard. 


102  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Still  when  she  slept,  he  kept  both  watch  and  ward ; 
And  when  she  waked,  he  wayiccl  diligent, 
With  humble  service  to  her  will  prcpard. 
From  her  fair  eyes  he  took  commandement, 
And  ever  by  her  lookes  conceived  her  intent." 

The  story  of  the  fair  Una  ends  happily,  and  we  see  her, 
at  the  end  of  the  first  book,  united  to  her  knight  on  a  happy 
wedding  day,  when  she  lays  her  sad  garments  aside  and 
appears  in  a  gown  — 

"  All  lilly  white,  withoutten  spot  or  pride, 
That  seemed  like  silke  and  silver  woven  neare, 
But  neither  silke  nor  silver  therein  did  appeare. 

"The  blazing  brightnesse  of  her  beautie's  beame. 
And  glorious  light  of  her  sunshyny  face 
To  tell,  were  as  to  strive  against  the  streame : 
My  ragged  rimes  are  all  too  rude  and  bace 
Her  heavenly  lineaments  for  to  enchase. 
Ne  wonder  for  her  own  dear-loved  knight, 
All  were  she  daily  with  himselfe  in  place, 
Did  wonder  much  at  her  celestial  sight ; 
Oft  had  he  scene  her  fairc,  but  never  so  faire  dight. 

"And  ever,  when  his  eie  did  her  behold, 
His  heart  did  sccmc  to  melt  in  pleasures  manifold." 


XVII. 

On  Spenser's   "  Fairy  Queen." 

THE  story  of  Florimel  —  a  musical  name  made  out  of 
flowers  and  honey  —  is  another  of  the  interesting 
episodes  in  The  Faiiy  Queen.  She  appears  first  in  the 
third  book,  a  beautiful  picture  of  fright,  fleeing  on  a  white 
palfrey  from  a  monster  who  seeks  to  devour  her.  She  re- 
aj)pears  in  many  cantos,  m  all  sorts  of  romantic  adventures, 
until  the  fifth  book,  when  all  her  troubles  are  ended  amid 
the  festivities  that  attend  her  marriage  to  the  handsome 
Prince  Marinell. 


ON'  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  103 

The  women  in  Spenser's  poem  are  a  constant  delight  to 
the  imagination.  They  Hve  in  his  pages  Uke  creatures  in 
some  land  of  enchantment,  and  while  they  are  not  like  real 
women  in  a  real  world,  they  are  so  natural  to  their  sur- 
roundings that  we  cannot  help  believing  in  them  as  much  as 
if  they  had  actually  existed. 

The  heroine  of  the  third  book  is  Britomart,  a  royal  maid 
of  Britain,  who  puts  on  a  helmet  and  armor,  and  in  dis- 
guise of  a  knight  goes  forth  to  seek  her  lover,  Sir  Artegall. 
In  her  course  Britomart  meets  with  all  sorts  of  romantic 
adventures;  yet  Spenser  has  managed  to  preserve  for  his 
heroine  all  the  sweet  charm  of  womanliness,  in  spite  of  her 
Amazonian  equipment. 

Here  are  some  stanzas  which  give  an  account  of  her 
battle  with  the  scornful  Marinell,  afterwards  the  bridegroom 
of  Florimel.  The  fourth  canto  of  the  third  book  begins 
with  this  description  of  the  battle  :  — 

"  Where  is  the  antique  glory  now  become 
That  whylom  wont  in  wemen  to  appeare  ? 
Where  be  the  brave  atchievements  doen  by  some  ? 
Where  be  the  batteilles,  where  the  shield  and  speare, 
And  all  the  conquests  which  them  high  did  reare 
That  matter  made  for  famous  poet's  verse 
And  boastful  men  so  oft  abasht  to  hear  ? 
Beene  they  all  dead,  and  laide  in  doleful  hearse, 
Or  doen  they  onely  sleepe,  and  shall  againe  reverse  ?  .  .  . 

"  Yet  these,  and  all  that  els  had  puissaunce 
Cannot  with  noble  Britomart  compare, 
As  well  for  glory  of  great  valiaunce 
As  for  pure  chastitee  and  vertue  rare. 
That  all  her  goodly  deedes  doe  well  declare 
Well  worthie  stock  from  which  the  branches  sprong, 
That  in  late  yeares  so  faire  ablossome  beare, 
As  thee,  O  queene,  the  matter  of  my  song. 
Whose  lignage  from  this  lady  I  derive  along.  .  .  . 

"  But  Britomart  kept  on  her  former  course, 
Ne  ever  doft  her  arms.  .  .  . 
So  forth  she  rode,  without  repose  or  rest,  .  .  . 
Till  that  to  the  sea  coast  at  length  she  her  addrcsst  .  .  . 


I04 


FAMILIAR    TALKS 


"  There  she  alighted  from  licr  light-foot  beast, 
And  sitting  down  upon  the  rocky  shore, 
15add  her  old  squyre  unlace  her  lofty  creast : 
Tho  having  vewd  awhile  the  surges  hore 
That  'gainst  the  craggy  cliffs  did  loudly  rore, 
And  in  their  raging  surquedry  disdayned 
That  the  fast  earth  affronted  them  so  sore, 
And  their  devouring  covetizc  restraynea  ; 
Thereat  she  sighed  deepe,  and  after  thus  complayned: 

"  '  Huge  sea  of  sorrow  and  tempestuous  griefe 
Wherein  my  feeble  barkc  is  tossed  long, 
Far  from  the  hoped  haven  of  reliefe, 
Why  doe  thy  cruel  billowes  beat  so  strong, 
And  thy  moyst  mountaines  each  on  others  throng, 
Threatning  to  swallow  u])  my  fearefuU  lyfe  ? 
O,  doe  thy  cruell  wrath,  and  spightfull  wrong 
At  length  allay,  and  stint  thy  stormy  strife, 
Which  in  thy  troubled  bowels  raignes  and  rageth  ryfe.  . 

" '  Thou  God  of  winds,  that  raignest  in  the  seas, 
That  raignest  also  in  the  continent, 
At  last  blow  up  some  gentle  gale  of  ease, 
The  which  may  bring  my  ship,  ere  it  be  rent, 
Unto  the  gladsome  port  of  her  intent ! 
Then  when  I  shall  myselfe  in  safety  see, 
A  table  for  eternall  moniment 
Of  thy  great  grace  and  my  great  jeopardee, 
Great  Neptune,  I  avow  to  hallow  unto  thee.'  .  .  . 

"  Thus  as  she  her  recomforted,  she  spyde 
Where,  far  away,  one  all  in  armour  bright, 
With  hasty  gallop  towards  her  did  ryde. 
Her  dolour  soone  she  ceast,  and  on  her  dight 
Her  helmet,  to  her  courser  mounting  light; 
Her  former  sorrow  into  sudden  wrath 
(Both  coosen  passions  of  distroubled  spright) 
Converting,  forth  she  bcates  the  dusty  path  ; 
Love  and  despight  attonce  her  corage  kindled  hath. 

"  As  when  a  foggy  mist  hath  overcast 
The  face  of  hcven  and  the  cleare  ayre  cngrosste. 
The  world  in  darknes  dwels  ;  till  that  at  last 
The  watry  south  winde  from  the  sea-borde  coste 
Upblowing,  doth  disperse  the  vapour  loste. 
And  poures  itselfe  forth  in  a  stormy  showre, — 
So  the  fayre  I'ritomarte,  having  discloste 
Her  clowdy  care  into  a  wrathfull  stowre. 
The  mist  of  griefe  dissolv'd  did  into  vengeance  powre. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  105 

"  Eftsoones,  her  goodly  shield  addressing  fayre, 
That  mortall  speare  she  in  her  hand  did  take, 
And  unto  battaill  did  herselfe  prepayrc. 
The  knight,  approaching,  sternely  her  bespake  : 
'  Sir  knight,  that  doest  thy  voyage  rashly  make 
By  this  forbidden  way,  in  my  despight, 
Ne  doest  by  others'  death  ensample  take, 
I  rede  thee  now  retyre  whiles  thou  hast  might. 
Least  afterward  it  be  to  late  to  take  thy  flight.' 

"  Y-thrild  with  deepe  disdaine  of  his  proud  threat, 
She  shortly  thus  :  '  Fly  they,  that  need  to  fly. 
Wordes  fearen  babes  ;  I  mean  not  thee  entreat 
To  passe,  but  maugre  thee  will  pass  or  dy.' 
Ne  lenger  stayd  for  th'  other  to  reply. 
But  with  sharpe  speare  the  rest  made  dearly  knowne. 
Strongly  the  straunge  knight  ran,  and  sturdily 
Strooke  her  full  on  the  breast,  that  made  her  downe 
Decline  her  liead,  and  touch  her  crouper  with  her  crown. 

"  But  she  againe  him  in  the  shield  did  smite 
With  so  fierce  furie  and  great  puissaunce, 
That,  through  his  three-square  scuchin  percing  quite. 
And  through  his  mayled  hauberque,  by  mischaunce. 
The  wicked  Steele  through  his  left  side  did  glaunce. 
Him  so  transfixed  she  before  her  bore 
Beyond  his  croupe,  the  length  of  all  her  launce  ; 
Till  sadly  soucing  on  the  sandy  shore. 
He  tombled  on  an  heape,  and  wallowd  in  his  gore. 

"Like  as  the  sacred  oxe,  that  carelesse  stands 
With  gilden  homes  and  flowry  girlonds  crownd, 
Proud  of  his  dying  honor  and  deare  bandes, 
Whiles  th'  altars  fume  with  frankincense  arownd, 
All  suddeinly  with  mortall  stroke  astownd 
Doth  groveling  fall,  and  with  his  streaming  gore 
Distaines  the  j^illours  and  the  holy  grownd. 
And  the  fair  flowres  that  decked  him  afore, — 
So  fell  proud  Marinell  upon  the  pretious  shore." 

The  second  book,  which  gives  the  adventures  of  Sir 
Guyon,  has  some  of  the  finest  contrasts,  from  Spenser's 
grandest  style  to  his  most  beautiful  and  poetic.  The  visit 
to  Mammon's  Cave  is  one  of  the  strongest  pieces  of  de- 
scription, and  the  account  of  Guyon's  entrance  into  the 
gardens  of  the  Bower  of  Acrasia  is  one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful things  in  all  the  book.     No  other  poet  could  describe 


I06  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

a  garden  as  Spenser  could.  His  description  of  the  garden 
in  the  Fate  of  the  Ikitterfly  is  as  good  as  a  painting  of 
it,  and  the  gardens  of  this  Lower  of  BUss  are  no  less  per- 
fectly portrayed. 

Sir  Guyon  enters  these  gardens  through  a  gate  framed 
of  interlacing  vines,  whose  luscious  bunches  of  fruit  seem 
to  offer  themselves  to  the  hands  of  all  who  pass  under  it. 
Within  this  gate  lies  the  bower  of  Acrasia,  the  mistress  of 
the  enchanted  place.  We  will  begin  just  where  Guyon 
passes  through  the  gateway  :  — 

"  There  the  most  daintic  paradise  on  ground 
Itselfe  doth  offer  to  his  sober  eye, 
In  which  all  pleasures  plenteously  abownd, 
And  none  does  other's  happinesse  envye  ; 
The  painted  flowres ;  the  trees  upshooting  hie; 
The  dales  for  shade  ;  the  hilles  for  breathing  space; 
The  trembling  groves  ;  the  christall  running  by; 
And  that  which  all  faire  workes  doth  most  aggrace, 
The  art  which  all  that  wrought,  appeared  in  no  place.  .  .  . 

"And  in  the  midst  of  all  a  fountaine  stood.  .  .  . 

"Infinit  streames  continually  did  well 
Out  of  this  fountaine,  sweete  and  faire  to  see. 
The  which  into  an  ample  laver  fell, 
And  shortly  grew  to  so  great  quantitee 
That  like  a  litle  lake  it  seemed  to  bee, 
Whose  depth  exceeded  not  three  cubits  hight. 
That  through  the  waves  one  might  the  bottom  see, 
All  pav'd  beneath  with  jaspar  shining  bright, 
That  seemd  the  fountaine  in  that  sea  did  sayle  upright.  .  .  . 

"Eftsoones  they  heard  a  most  melodious  sound, 
Of  all  that  mote  delight  a  daintic  eare. 
Such  as  attonce  might  not  on  living  ground, 
Save  in  this  paradise,  be  heard  elsewhere. 
Right  hard  it  was  for  wight  which  did  it  heare 
To  read  what  manner  musicke  that  mote  bee, 
For  all  that  pleasing  is  to  living  earc 
Was  there  consorted  in  one  harmonice : 
Birdes,  voices,  instruments,  windes,  waters,  all  agree. 

"The  joyous  birdes,  shrouded  in  chcarefull  shade, 
Their  notes  unto  the  voice  aftemprcd  sweet; 
The  angelicall  soft  trembling  voyces  made 
To  th'  instruments,  divine  respondence  meet; 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  IO7 

The  hilvcr-sounding  instruments  did  meet 
Witli  the  base  murmur  of  the  waters  fall; 
The  waters  fall  with  difference  discreet, 
Now  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  call ; 
The  gentle  warbling  wind  low  answered  to  all.  .  .  . 

"  The  whiles  some  one  did  chaunt  this  lovely  lay: 
'  Ah,  see,  whoso  fayre  thing  dost  fayne  to  see, 
In  springing  flowre  the  image  of  thy  day! 
Ah,  see  the  virgin  rose,  how  sweetly  shea 
Doth  first  peepe  foorth  with  bashful  modestee ; 
That  fairer  seemes  the  lesse  ye  see  her  may ! 
Lo !  see  soon  after,  how  more  bold  and  free 
Her  bared  bosome  she  doth  broad  display, 
Lo!  see  soone  after  how  she  fades  and  falls  away.'  " 

But  it  is  not  by  such  extracts  as  these  that  we  can  hope 
to  get  any  full  idea  of  the  riches  of  The  Fairy  Queen. 
Only  by  reading  for  yourselves  can  you  get  any  fair  con- 
ception of  the  numberless  figures  that  move  on  to  the 
stately  music  of  Spenser's  stanza.  The  lovely  Amoret, 
the  spirited  Belphoebe,  the  delicate  Florimel,  the  learned 
Canacee,  the  bold  Satyrane,  Braggadochio,  whose  name 
tells  his  character,  Sir  Calidore,  of  exquisite  courtesy,  the 
noble  Sir  Scudamour,  the  magnanimous  Arthur,  —  these  are 
a  few  only  of  the  graceful,  chivalrous,  and  fascinating  crea- 
tions of  our  poet's  unwearied  fancy.  Add  to  these  the 
elfin  beings  conjured  by  his  magic  pen,  —  the  giants,  dwarfs, 
monsters ;  the  sprites,  composed  of  snow  and  wax,  of  fire 
and  dew.  Then  transport  the  mind  to  the  scenery  in 
which  he  places  his  characters,  —  the  fair  green  woods,  the 
sea  grottoes,  the  noble  castles,  the  subterranean  caves,  the 
fairy  gardens,  — •  and  you  will  just  begin  to  fathom  the  in- 
exhaustible depths  of  his  fancy. 

Spenser's  poetry  has  always  been  a  delight  to  young  ver- 
sifiers. Probably  no  other  poet  has  ever  inspired  so  many 
men,  great  and  little,  to  write  verses.  And  that  is  quite 
natural.  He  is  so  stimulating  to  the  imagination,  his  verse 
is  such  a  store-house  of  fancy,  that  I  can  think  of  the 
younger  poets  settling  on  it  as  the  bees  of  Mount  Hybla 
on  a  flower-garden.     None  of  our  poets  have  so  exuberant 


I08  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

an  imagination,  and  of  them  all,  Shakespeare's  description 
fits  Spenser  best,  —  He  is  a  creature  of  imagination  all 
compact. 

"  And  as  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 


XVIII. 
On  Sir  Philip  Sidney  and  the  "Arcadia." 

TO  ALMOST  every  one  who  looks  back  in  imagination 
upon  the  age  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  Sir  Philip  Sidney 
will  appear  one  of  the  most  interesting  figures 
1554-1586  -jj^Qjjg  all  those  that  graced  her  court.  He  was 
noble  in  birth,  gifted  in  mind,  handsome  in  person,  a 
favorite  courtier  of  the  queen,  a  gallant  soldier  in  the  field, 
beloved  by  all  who  knew  him,  yet  withal  so  modest,  gentle, 
full  of  noble  humanity,  that  he  seems  to  have  had  all  the 
virtues  as  well  as  all  the  graces  of  manhood.  Nothing  but 
good  has  ever  been  said  of  him,  and  one  of  the  last  acts 
of  his  life  crowns  gloriously  all  that  goes  before.  He  died  of 
a  wound  which  he  got  at  Zutphen,  where  he  was  fighting 
in  the  cause  of  the  Netherlands,  in  their  wars  with  Spain. 
Just  as  he  was  to  be  taken  from  the  field  after  he  had  re- 
ceived his  death-wound,  a  bottle  of  water  was  brought  him 
to  drink.  As  he  was  about  to  put  it  to  his  lips  he  saw  a 
wounded  soldier  carried  by,  who  cast  wistfully  at  the  water 
his  dying  eyes.  This  Sir  Philip  seeing,  gave  the  bottle  to 
the  poor  man,  saying  simply,  "  Thy  necessity  is  yet  greater 
than  mine."  What  fame  of  authorship  could  outshine  the 
lustre  of  such  a  deed  as  this? 

Yet  although  writing  was  not  the  pursuit  of  his  life,  he 
had  great  gifts  as  a  writer.  He  died  at  thirty-two,  and  his 
brief  day  was  full  of  other  affairs  than  those  of  literature, 
which  in  him  seems  only  the  amusement  of  an  idle  hour. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  I09 

If  he  had  made  it  his  first  following,  one  can  fancy  he 
might  have  risen  to  great  heights. 

His  principal  works  are  his  sonnets  from  Astrophel  to 
Stella,  in  verse  ;  and  the  Arcadia,  and  Defence  of  Poetry, 
in  prose.  The  Arcadia  is  a  romance  inspired  largely  by  the 
ideas  of  love  and  chivalry  which  belong  to  the  Middle 
Ages.  The  plot  is  very  simple.  Sidney  calls  it  "  an  idle 
work,  which,  like  the  spider's  web,  will  be  thought  fitter  to 
be  swept  away  than  worn  to  any  other  purpose."  Two 
young  princes,  in  disguise,  wander  into  the  kingdom  of 
Arcadia,  where  King  Basilius  keeps  his  court,  with  his  wife 
Gynecia  and  his  two  daughters  Pamela  and  Philoclea. 
The  two  young  strangers  naturally  fall  in  love  with  the  two 
princesses ;  and  the  various  adventures  of  these  princely 
persons,  with  the  stories  of  other  heroes  and  heroines 
woven  into  the  narrative,  and  occasional  passages  in  verse, 
make  up  the  Arcadia. 

In  spite  of  its  faults  —  and  it  has  sometimes  even  the  fault 
of  dulness  —  it  is  rich  in  fine  sentences,  and  lines  that  are 
almost  a  poem  by  themselves.  You  can  see  the  nobihty 
and  the  wisdom  of  Sidney's  thoughts  in  such  sentences  as 
meet  the  eye  when  one  turns  over  the  leaves  at  random  : 

"  I  am  no  herald  to  inquire  of  men's  pedigrees;  it  sufficeth  me 
if  I  know  their  virtues." 

"  They  are  never  alone  that  are  accompanied  with  noble 
thoughts." 

"  Provision  is  the  foundation  of  hospitality,  and  thrift  the  fuel 
of  magnificence." 

"  Oh,  imperfect  proportion  of  reason,  which  can  too  much  fore- 
see, and  too  little  prevent !  " 

"  Condemning  all  men  of  evil  because  his  mind  had  no  eye  to 
espy  goodness." 

"There  is  no  service  like  his  that  serves  because  he  loves." 

"What's  mine,  even  to  my  soul,  is  yours;  but  the  secret  of 
my  friend  is  not  mine." 

Of  women  he  says,  — 

"Nature  is  no  step-mother  to  that  sex,  how  much  soever  some 
men,  sharp-witted  only  in  evil  speaking,  have  sought  to  disgrace 
them." 


no  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

The  Arcadia  contains  many  episodes,  which,  taken  out 
from  their  context,  would  form  complete  and  interesting  sto- 
ries by  themselves.  The  best  of  these  is  the  tale  of  Argalus 
and  Parthenia,  whose  story  appears  at  intervals  throughout 
the  book.  These  are  two  lovers,  who  after  many  haps  and 
mishaps  are  united  in  wedlock.  A  beautiful  passage  describes 
them  in  their  married  estvite  as  they  are  visited  by  a  mes- 
senger who  comes  to  summon  Argalus  to  go  to  war  in  aid 
of  the  two  princesses  who  have  been  taken  prisoner  by 
their  foes  :  — 

"The  messenger  made  speed  and  found  Argalus  at  a  castle  of 
his  own,  sitting  in  a  parlor  with  his  fair  Parthenia,  he  reading  in 
a  book  the  stories  of  Hercules,  she  by  him  as  to  hear  him  read ; 
but  while  his  eyes  looked  on  the  book,  she  looked  on  his  eyes, 
and  sometimes  staying  him  with  some  pretty  question,  not  so 
much  to  be  resolved  of  the  doubt,  as  to  give  him  occasion  to  look 
upon  her.  A  happy  couple  !  he  joying  in  her,  she  joying  in  her- 
self, but  in  herself,  because  she  enjoyed  him  ;  both  increased 
their  riches  by  giving  to  each  other,  each  making  one  life  double 
because  they  made  a  double  life  one  ;  where  desire  never  wanted 
satisfaction,  nor  satisfaction  ever  bred  satiety  ;  he  ruling  because 
she  would  obey,  or  rather  because  she  would  obey,  she  therein 
ruling. 

"  But  when  the  messenger  came  in,  with  letters  in  his  hand 
and  haste  in  his  countenance,  though  she  knew  not  what  to  fear, 
yet  she  feared,  because  she  knew  not,  but  rose  and  went  aside 
while  he  delivered  his  letters  and  message,  and  afar  off  she 
looked  now  at  the  messenger,  and  then  at  her  husband, 
the  same  fear  which  made  her  loth  to  have  cause  of  fear,  yet 
making  her  seek  cause  to  nourish  her  fear.  And  well  she  found 
tliere  was  some  serious  matter,  for  her  husband's  countenance 
figured  some  resolution  between  loathsomeness  and  necessity, 
and  once  his  eye  cast  upon  her,  and  finding  hers  upon  him,  he 
blushed,  and  she  blushed  because  he  blushed,  then  straight  grew 
pale,  because  she  knew  not  why  he  had  blushed.  But  when  lie 
had  read  and  heard,  and  despatched  away  the  messenger,  like 
a  man  in  whom  honor  could  not  be  rocked  asleep  by  affec- 
tion, with  promise  quickly  to  follow,  he  came  to  Parthenia ; 
and  as  sorry  as  might  be  for  parting,  and  yet  more  sorry 
for  her  sorrow,  he  gave  her  tlie  letter  to  read.  She  with 
fearful  slowness  took  it,  and  with  fearful  quickness  read  it,  and 
having  read  it,  '  Ali,  my   Argalus,'  said    slie,   'and    have  you 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE  \  \  \ 

made  such  haste  to  answer,  and  are  you  so  soon  resolved  to 
leave  me? ' 

"  But  he  discoursing  unto  her  how  much  it  imported  his  honor, 
which,  since  it  was  dear  to  him,  he  knew  it  would  be  dear  unto 
her,  her  reason,  overclouded  with  sorrow,  suffered  her  not  pres- 
ently to  reply,  but  left  the  charge  thereof  to  tears  and  sighs, 
which  he,  not  able  to  bear,  left  her  alone,  and  v.ent  to  give  order 
for  his  present  departure. 

"  But  by  that  time  he  was  armed  and  ready  to  go,  she  had 
recovered  a  little  strength  of  spirit  again,  and  coming  out,  and 
seeing  him  armed,  and  wanting  nothing  for  his  departure  but  her 
farewell,  she  ran  to  him,  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  kneeling 
down,  without  regard  who  either  heard  her  speech  or  saw  her 
demeanor:  '  My  Argalus,  my  Argalus,' said  she,  'do  not  thus 
forsake  me.  Remember,  alas  !  remember  that  I  have  an  inter- 
est in  you  which  I  will  never  yield  shall  be  thus  adventured. 
Your  valor  is  already  sufficiently  known ;  sufficiently  have  you 
already  done  for  your  country;  enow,  enow  there  are  beside  you 
to  lose  less  worthy  lives.  Woe  is  me!  what  shall  become  of 
me  if  you  thus  abandon  me  ?  Then  was  it  time  for  you  to  fol- 
low these  adventures  when  you  adventured  nobody  but  yourself, 
and  were  nobody's  but  your  own.  But  now,  pardon  me  that  now 
or  never  I  claim  mine  own  ;  mine  you  are,  and  without  me  you 
can  undertake  no  danger;  and  will  you  endanger  Parthenia  ? 
Parthenia  shall  be  in  the  battle  of  your  fight,  Parthenia  shall 
smart  in  your  pain,  and  your  blood  must  be  bled  by  Parthenia ! ' 

" '  Dear  Parthenia,'  said  he,  '  this  is  the  first  time  that  ever 
you  resisted  my  will  ;  I  thank  you  for  it,  but  persever  not  in  it, 
and  let  not  the  tears  of  those  most  beloved  eyes  be  a  presage  of 
that  which  you  would  not  should  happen.  I  shall  live,  doubt 
not ;  for  so  great  a  blessing  as  you  are,  was  not  given  unto  me 
so  soon  to  be  deprived  of  it.  Look  for  me,  therefore,  shortly, 
and  victorious,  and  prepare  a  joyful  welcome,  and  I  will  wish 
for  no  other  triumph.'  She  answered  not,  but  stood,  as  it  were, 
thunder-stricken  with  amazement,  for  true  love  made  obedience 
stand  up  against  all  other  passions.  But  when  he  took  her  in 
his  arms,  and  sought  to  print  his  heart  on  her  sweet  lips,  she 
fell  in  a  swound,  so  as  he  was  fain  to  leave  her  to  her  gentle- 
women; and  carried  away  by  the  tyranny  of  honor,  though  with 
many  a  back-cast  look  and  hearty  groan,  went  to  the  camp." 

The  story  follows  Argalus  to  the  field,  where  he  is 
killed  in  combat  with  his  enemy  Amphialus,  dying  in  the 
arms  of  his  Parthenia,  who  arrives   upon  the  field   only  to 


112  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

receive  his  dying  farewell,  but  not  in  time  to  save  his  life 
by  her  entreaties  to  his  foe.  Soon  after  this,  Parthenia, 
dressing  herself  like  a  knight,  in  black  armor,  challenges 
Amphialus,  and  from  him  receives  her  own  death-wound. 
Amphialus  does  not  discover  that  it  is  Parthenia  in  disguise 
with  whom  he  is  fighting,  until  he  has  fatally  wounded  her ; 
and  then  he  is  overcome  with  grief  and  shame  at  what  he 
has  done. 

"Therefore  [Amphialus],  putting  off  his  head-piece  and 
gauntlet,  kneeling  down  unto  her,  and  with  tears  testifying  his 
sorrow,  he  offered  his,  by  himself  accursed,  hands  to  help  lier, 
protesting  his  life  and  power  to  be  ready  to  do  her  honor. 
But  Parthenia,  who  had  inward  messengers  of  the  desired 
death's  approach,  looking  upon  him,  and  straight  turning  away 
her  feeble  sight  as  from  a  delightless  object,  drawing  out  her 
words,  which  her  breath,  loath  to  depart  from  so  sweet  a  body, 
did  faintly  deliver :  '  Sir,'  said  she,  '  I  pray  you,  if  prayers 
have  place  in  enemies,  to  let  my  maids  take  my  body  un- 
touched by  you.  .  .  .  Argalus  made  no  such  bargain  with  you 
that  the  hands  that  killed  him  should  help  me.  I  have  of 
them  —  and  I  not  only  pardon,  but  thank  you  for  it  —  the 
service  which  I  desired.  There  rests  nothing  now,  but  that  I 
go  live  with  him,  since  whose  death  I  have  done  nothing  but 
die.'  Then  pausing,  and  a  little  fainting,  and  again  coming  to 
herself,  '  O  sweet  life,  welcome  ! '  said  she.  '  Now  feel  I  the 
bands  untied  of  the  cruel  death  which  so  long  hath  held  me. 
And,  O  life,  O  death,  answer  for  me  that  my  thoughts  have, 
not  so  much  as  in  a  dream,  tasted  any  comfort  since  they  were 
deprived  of  Argalus.  I  come,  my  Argalus,  I  come.  And,  O 
God,  hide  my  faults  in  thy  mercies,  and  grant,  as  I  feel  thou 
dost  grant,  that  in  thy  eternal  love  we  may  love  each  other 
eternally.'  .  .  .  With  that,  casting  up  her  hands  and  eyes  to 
the  skies,  the  noble  soul  departed,  one  might  well  assure  him- 
self, to  heaven,  which  left  the  body  in  so  heavenly  a  demeanor." 

Thus  ends  the  story  of  Argalus  and  Parthenia,  which  is 
only  one  of  the  many  episodes  of  the  Arcadia.  Although 
it  is  a  little  stilted  for  our  modern  taste,  and  many  sen- 
tences are  involved  and  over-full  of  words,  there  are  touches 
of  nature  and  of  feeling  in  it  that  will  go  straight  to  the 
heart. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  II3 

Close  beside  Sidney  should  come  the  name  of  his  biog- 
rapher and  bosom  friend,  Fulke  Greville,  Lord  Brooke, 
who  desired  to  have  for  his  epitaph  that  he  had  been  "  Servant 
to  Queen  Elizabeth,  counsellor  to  King  James,  and  friend 
to  Sir  Philip  Sidney."  He  was  a  courtier-poet,  who  wrote 
plays  and  sonnets  in  verse,  and  a  life  of  his  friend  Sidney  in 
prose,  which  is  most  to  be  valued  of  all  his  works. 

It  is  said  that  Sidney  intended  the  princes  in  the 
Arcadia,  Pyrocles  and  Musidorus,  for  himself  and  Lord 
Brooke.  The  two  gentlemen  were  very  dear  friends  during 
Sidney's  short  life.  Lord  Brooke  long  outlived  his  friend, 
dying  at  an  advanced  age.  One  of  the  writers  of  the 
time  says  of  him  that  of  all  Queen  Elizabeth's  favorites 
"  he  had  the  longest  lease  and  the  smoothest  time  without 
rub,"  and  that  "  he  came  to  court  backed  with  a  plentiful 
fortune,  which,  as  he  was  wont  to  say,  was  better  held  to- 
gether by  a  single  life,  wherein  he  lived  and  died,  a  con- 
stant courtier  of  the  ladies."  He  would  hardly  have  gained 
mention  in  the  present  as  a  literary  man  if  it  were  not  for 
his  biography  of  Sidney,  which  gives  him  an  honorable 
place  among  this  group  of  worthies. 


XIX. 

On  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  Samuel  Daniel,  and   Michael 
Drayton. 

LIKE  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  was  a  man 
of  large  gifts,  and  so  versatile  that  what  he 
did  in  literature  seems  only  the  diversion  of  his 
leisure  hours.  Hardly  less  full  of  beauty  and  charm  than 
Sidney,  Raleigh  holds  our  interest  to  the  end  of  his  long 
life.  Sidney  died  in  early  manhood,  but  Raleigh  oudived 
his  generation.  Spenser,  Essex,  Shakespeare,  all  were 
dead,  when,  at  sixty-six,  he  laid  his  noble  head  under  the 
axe  of  King  James's  headsman.     He  was  not  only  a  poet, 

8 


114 


FAMILIAR    TALKS 


a  scholar,  and  a  man  of  scientific  attainments,  but  also  a 
clear-headed  statesman,  an  adventurous  sailor,  a  skilful 
military  leader,  and   a  polished  orator. 

Raleigh  wrote  the  first  part  of  a  great  History  of  the 
World.  He  never  finished  the  work,  and  all  there  is  of  it 
is  in  one  great,  ponderous  folio,  which  we  should  find  dull 
reading.  There  is  also  a  little  volume  of  his  poems  col- 
lected, though  it  is  disputed  whether  or  not  he  wrote  some 
of  the  best  included  in  this  handful.  I  like  best  of  all  his 
writings,  or  of  any  that  have  been  ascribed  to  him,  his  pri- 
vate letters,  which  are  written  in  vigorous  English,  in  the 
style  of  a  master  of  language.  Here  is  an  extract  from  one 
that  he  wrote  to  Robert  Cecil,  who  had  just  lost  his  wife, 
a  kinswoman  of  Raleigh.     He  begins,  — 

"  There  is  no  man  sorry  for  death  itself,  but  only  for  the  time 
of  death,  every  one  knowing  that  it  is  a  bond  never  forfeited  to 
God.  If,  then,  we  know  the  same  to  be  certain  and  inevitable, 
we  ought  to  take  the  time  of  his  arrival  in  as  good  part  as  the 
knowledge,  and  not  to  lament  on  the  instant  of  every  seeming 
adversity,  which  has  been  on  the  way  to  us  from  the  beginning. 

"  It  pertaineth  to  every  man  of  a  wise  and  worthy  spirit  to 
draw  together  into  sufferance  the  unknown  future  to  the  known 
present.  ...  It  is  true  that  you  have  lost  a  good  and  virtuous 
wife,  and  myself  an  honorable  friend  and  kinswoman  ;  but  there 
was  a  time  when  she  was  unknown  to  you,  for  wiiom  you  then 
lamented  not.  She  is  now  no  more  yours,  nor  of  your  acquaint- 
ance, but  immortal,  and  not  needing  or  knowing  your  love  and 
sorrow.  Therefore  you  do  but  grieve  for  that  which  now  is  as 
then  it  was,  when  not  yours,  only  bettered,  with  this  difference) 
that  she  hath  past  the  wearisome  journey  of  this  dark  world> 
and  hath  possession  of  her  inheritance. 

"  I  believe  that  sorrows  are  dangerous  companions,  convert- 
ing bad  into  evil,  and  evil  into  worse.  They  are  the  treasures 
of  weak  hearts  and  foolish.  .  .  .  The  mind  of  man  is  that  part 
of  God  in  us  which,  by  so  much  as  it  is  subject  to  any  passion, 
by  so  much  is  it  farther  from  him  that  gave  it  us.  Sorrows 
draw  not  the  dead  to  life,  but  the  living  to  death." 

Such  noble  and  serene  i)hilosophy  as  this,  Raleigh  might 
not  always  be  able  to  live  up  to,  and,  indeed,  there  were 
times  when  his  own  great  troubles  aroused  in  him  passions 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TUKE.  \  1 5 

of  grief  such  as  he  argues  against.  Eut  lie  lived  a  life  full 
of  useful  activity,  and  met  death  bravely  on  the  scaffold. 
Americans  owe  him  remembrance  because  he  did  more 
than  any  other  one  man  of  his  time  to  further  the  colonizing 
of  America,  —  worked  and  planned  for  it  till  his  fortunes 
failed.  And  w^ien  he  was  arrested  for  treason  by  King 
James,  and  imprisoned  in  the  Tower,  he  still  said,  in  a 
spirit  of  prophecy,  —  for  American  affairs  never  looked 
more  hopeless,  —  "I  shall  yet  live  to  see  that  an  English 
nation." 

When  he  ascended  the  scaffold,  the  little  colony  at 
Jamestown,  Virginia,  was  eight  years  old,  and  the  Puritans 
in  Holland  were  just  forming  their  plans  for  emigration  to 
the  New  World.  As  he  closed  his  eyes  upon  the  world, 
is  it  just  possible  that  Raleigh  may  have  seen,  in  that  one 
struggling  offshoot  from  the  parent  State  just  fastened  on 
the  shores  of  Virginia,  a  dim  foreshadowing  of  that  great 
nation  of  English  stock  which  in  two  centuries  and  a  half 
should  cover  America  from  ocean  to  ocean  ? 

The  name  of  Samuel  D.aniel  has  taken  a  place  in  my 
mind  among  the  friends  of  Spenser,  perhaps  be- 
cause some  one  has  ventured  a  guess  that  the 
Rosalinde  with  whom  Spenser  fell  in  love  when  he  wrote 
the  Shcpherd^s  Calendar  was  Rose  Daniel,  a  sister  of  this 
poet.  He  was  a  musician's  son,  which  has  given  his  biog- 
rapher reason  to  say  that  the  poet  inherited  his  father's 
talent  and  put  it  into  his  verse.  He  wrote  such  flowing, 
pure  English  that  he  was  called  "  well-languaged  Daniel," 
and  some  of  his  little  songs  are  very  graceful  and  musical. 
It  is  a  pity  that  instead  of  writing  lyrics,  he  should  have 
taken  a  dry  subject  in  history  for  the  theme  of  his  most 
ambitious  poem.  This  was  The  History  of  the  Civil  Wars, 
in  which  he  puts  the  Wars  of  the  Roses  into  verse.  It 
speaks  well  for  his  genius  that  he  has  managed  to  infuse  a 
little  breath  of  poetry  into  so  prosaic  a  recital. 

A  subject  even  more  prosaic  than  this  of  Daniel  was 
used  by  another  poet  of  this  group.  The  Pollyolbion, 
written  by  Michael  Dr.a.yton,  is  nothing  less  than  a  geo- 


Il6  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

grapliical  description  of  England,  written  in  about  thirty 
thousand  lines  of  twelve-syllabled  verse.  There  is  a  great 
deal  that  is  interesting  in  the  Pollyolbiofi,  and  in  so  much 
verse  there  must  be  some  poetry ;  but  I  am  sure  even 
the  genius  of  Spenser  could  not  have  made  anything  but  a 
dull  poem  out  of  such  a  dull  theme,  and,  in  consequence, 
nobody  ever  reads  the  Follyolbion  nowadays. 


XX. 

On  Francis  Bacon,  Baron  Verui.am,  Viscount  St.  Albans. 

FRANCIS  BACON  is  the  great  philosopher,  the  most 
profound  thinker,  of  his  age.  His  system  of  philos- 
ophy, which  is  called,  from  him,  the  Baconian  system, 
wrought  a  revolution  in  thought,  and  has  had  a  great  influ- 
ence on  human  action  from  his  time  to  ours.  I  shall  not 
attempt  to  explain  his  philosophy,  because  philosophy  and 
science  do  not  come  within  the  province  of  these  Talks, 
but  will  simply  tell  you  that  all  his  efforts  were  to  make 
philosophy  of  practical  benefit  to  humanity,  rather  than  to 
keep  men  wandering  in  a  vague  region  of  inquiry  upon  points 
that  the  mind  never  has  been  able  to  solve.  He  taught  men 
to  reason  from  experience,  to  found  their  knowledge  on 
results  gained  by  experience,  applying  it  to  works  really 
useful  to  mankind.  Hitherto,  the  philosopher  had  been 
a  man  occupied  with  abstract  questions,  carrying  his  head 
aloft  in  the  clouds ;  Bacon  occupied  himself  with  questions 
that  bore  upon  the  comfort  of  humnn  beings  and  the  im- 
provement of  human  conditions.  As  Macaulay  has  said, 
in  few  words,  "  Bacon  taught  that  philosophy  was  made  for 
man,  not  man  for  philosophy.  ' 

Francis   Bacon  was   the  youngest  son  of  Sir  Nicholas 
1S61-162G     I^''^^°">  Lord  Keeper  of  the  Seal  under  Queen 
Elizabeth.     His  uncle,  Lord  Burleigh,  was  Eng- 
land's minister  of  finance   for  nearly  half  a  century,  and 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TUNE.  1 1 7 

Robert  Cecil,  Bacon's  cousin,  was  one  of  the  ablest  and 
most  powerful  politicians  of  the  later  years  of  Queen  Eliz- 
abeth and  the  first  half  of  the  reign  of  James  I.  Surrounded 
by  kinsfolk  so  great,  it  might  be  fancied  that  Bacon's  for- 
tunes were  assured  ;  but  it  seems  to  be  the  fact  that  the  help 
he  met  from  Burleigh  or  his  other  relatives  of  influence 
was  small  and  grudgingly  given,  and  it  is  certain  that  he 
owed  his  success  to  his  own  great  ability. 

That  Bacon's  was  the  greatest  intellect  of  his  age  is  hardly 
doubted  ;  but  of  the  greatness  and  nobility  of  his  character 
there  are  many  doubts.  The  chief  stain  upon  his  name  is 
that  of  ingratitude,  which  has  never  been  wiped  out.  During 
his  earlier  life  he  had  no  friend  more  generous  than  the  Earl 
of  Essex,  who  befriended  him  when  he  most  needed  friend- 
ship. But  when  Essex  was  accused  of  treason.  Bacon  was 
chief  counsel  for  the  Crown,  prosecuted  the  charge  against 
the  unhappy  earl,  proved  it,  and  gained  the  sentence  of 
death  against  his  former  friend  and  patron ;  and  finally, 
after  the  death  of  tlie  earl,  he  wrote  an  account  of  his 
treason  which  still  further  blackened  the  character  of  the 
unfortunate  Sussex.  Bacon's  apologists  plead  that,  as 
Queen's  Counsel,  it  was  his  duty  to  his  queen  and  his 
country  to  pursue  this  course  ;  but  I  think  every  generous 
spirit  will  condemn  Bacon,  and  will  rate  higher  the  obliga- 
tions of  gratitude  and  friendship  than  those  of  political 
duty  such  as  this. 

Bacon  rose  rapidly  in  the  reign  of  James  I.  He  held 
his  father's  office  of  Lord  Keeper,  was  then  made  Lord 
Chancellor,  and  finally  was  created  Viscount  St.  Albans. 
Near  the  close  of  his  life  he  was  accused  of  corruption 
in  his  high  office,  was  tried  for  this  charge,  made  an 
abject  confession,  and  was  sentenced  to  be  expelled  from 
the  House  of  Lords,  to  be  heavily  fined,  and  to  be  im- 
prisoned in  the  Tower.  His  sentence  was  not  carried  out. 
The  king  released  him  from  prison  in  two  days,  his  fine 
was  remitted,  and  he  finally  resumed  his  seat  in  the  House 
of  Peers;  but  he  never  recovered  from  his  disgrace,  and 
it  sullies  to  this  day  his  character  as  a  statesman. 


Il8  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

His  zeal  for  science  caused  liis  death.  He  was  re- 
volving in  his  mind  a  theory  about  the  arrest  of  decay  in 
animals  by  means  of  cold ;  and  when  driving  one  severe 
winter's  day  he  alighted  from  his  carriage  antl  stuffed  a  dead 
fowl  with  snow.  He  thus  took  the  cold  of  which  he  died. 
His  will  contains  the  following  appeal  to  the  judgment  of 
the  future,  and  shows  that  he  foresaw  that  his  intellectual 
greatness  would  overshadow  the  actions  that  marred  the 
nobleness  of  his  life  and  character :  "  For  my  name  and 
memory,  I  leave  it  to  men's  charitable  speeches,  to  foreign 
nations,  and  to  my  own  country  after  some  time  has  passed 
over.  " 

Of  all  Bacon's  writings,  his  Essays  belong  most  to  litera- 
ture, and  so  most  concern  us.  They  were  his  first  publica- 
tion, and  were  at  once  widely  read  in  his  own  country,  and 
translated  into  both  French  and  Italian.  Thirty  years  afte) 
their  first  appearance.  Bacon  carefully  revised  them,  added 
to  their  number,  and  republished  them,  with  a  preface,  in 
which  he  says:  "These,  of  all  my  works,  have  been  most 
current,  —  for  that,  as  it  seems,  they  come  home  to  men's 
businesse  and  bosomes. "  This  is  indeed  the  true  secret 
of  the  immortality  of  any  man's  written  words,  that  they 
should  "  come  home  to  men's  business  and  bosoms." 

The  Essays,  which  altogether  make  only  one  little  vol- 
ume, are  brief  dissertations  on  a  great  variety  of  subjects, 
running  through  the  gamut  of  human  interests,  as  Death, 
Adversity,  Riches,  Love,  Friendship,  Marriage,  Gardens, 
Building,  and  the  Regimen  of  Health.  These  little  papers 
say  more  in  brief  space,  and  contain  more  practical  wisdom, 
than  anything  else  I  know,  of  their  length,  or  even  a  good 
many  times  their  length,  in  the  English  language.  1  do  not 
know  a  better  book  to  pick  up  and  read  two  or  three  sen- 
tences to  set  one  thinking  wholesomely.  It  seems  as  if  the 
wisdom  of  a  good  many  ages  had  been  garnered  here,  ripe 
and  ready  for  the  use  of  all  fiiture  generations.  I  shall 
quote  one  of  the  shorter  essays  entire,  and  then  give  ex- 
tracts from  two  or  three  others.  First,  we  will  read  this,  on 
Revenge :  — 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE. 


119 


"  Revenge  is  a  kind  of  wild  justice,  which,  the  more  man's 
nature  runs  to,  the  more  ought  law  to  weed  it  out.  For,  as  to 
the  first  wrong,  it  doth  but  offend  the  law;  but  the  revenge  of 
that  wrong  putteth  the  law  out  of  office.  Certainly,  in  taking 
revenge,  a  man  is  but  even  with  his  enemy;  but  in  passing  it 
over,  he  is  superior,  for  it  is  a  prince's  part  to  pardon.  And 
Solomon,  I  am  sure,  saith :  '//  is  the  glory  of  a  man  to  pass  by 
an  offence.''  That  which  is  past,  is  gone  and  irrevocable,  and 
wise  men  have  enough  to  do  with  things  present  and  to  come. 
Therefore,  they  do  but  trifle  with  themselves  that  labor  in  past 
matters.  There  is  no  man  doth  a  wrong  for  the  wrong's  sake, 
but  thereby  to  purchase  himself  profit,  or  pleasure,  or  honor,  or 
the  like.  Therefore,  why  should  I  be  angry  with  a  man  for  lov- 
ing himself  better  than  me?  And  if  any  man  should  do  wrong, 
merely  out  of  ill  nature,  why?  Yet  it  is  but  like  the  thorn  or 
brier,  which  prick  and  scratch,  because  they  can  do  no  other. 
The  most  tolerable  sort  of  revenge  is  for  those  wrongs  which 
there  is  no  law  to  remedy.  But  then  let  a  man  take  heed  the 
revenge  be  such  as  there  is  no  law  to  punish,  else  a  man's 
enemy  is  still  beforehand,  and  it  is  two  to  one.  Some,  when 
they  take  revenge,  are  desirous  the  party  should  know  whence  it 
cometh.  This  is  the  more  generous,  for  the  delight  seemeth  to 
be,  not  so  much  in  doing  the  hurt,  as  in  making  the  party  re- 
pent ;  but  base  and  crafty  cowards  are  like  the  arrow  that  flieth 
in  the  dark. 

"  Cosmos,  Duke  of  Florence,  had  a  desperate  saying  against 
perfidious  or  neglecting  friends,  as  if  those  wrongs  were  un- 
pardonable. '  You  shall  read, '  he  said,  '  that  we  are  com- 
manded to  forgive  our  enemies,  but  you  never  read  that  we  are 
commanded  to  forgive  our  friends.'  But  yet  the  spirit  of  Job 
was  in  better  tune.  '  Shall  we,'  saith  he,  '  take  good  at  God's 
hands,  and  not  be  content  to  take  evil  also  ?'  And  so  of  friends 
in  a  proportion. 

"  This  is  certain,  that  a  man  that  studieth  revenge  keeps  his 
own  wounds  green,  which  otherwise  would  heal  and  do  well. 
Public  revenges  are  for  the  most  part  fortunate,  .  .  .  but  in 
private  revenges  it  is  not  so.  Nay,  rather,  vindictive  persons 
live  the  life  of  witches,  who,  as  they  are  mischievous,  so  end 
they  unfortunate." 

Here  are  a  few  sentences  from  his  Essay  of  Death : 

"Men  fear  Death  as  children  fear  to  go  in  the  dark.  And  as 
that  natural  fear  in  diildren  is  increased  with  tales,  so  is  the 
other.  .  .  . 


I20  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

"  It  is  worthy  the  observing  that  there  is  no  passion  in  the 
mind  of  man  so  weak  but  it  mates  and  masters  the  fear  of 
Death.  And  therefore  Death  is  no  such  terrible  enemy  when 
a  man  hath  so  many  attendants  about  him  that  can  win  the 
combat  of  him.  Revenge  triumplis  over  death  ;  Love  shghts 
it;  Honor  aspireth  to  it;  Grief  flieth  to  it;  Fear  pre-occupa- 
teth  it.  .  .  . 

"  It  is  as  natural  to  die  as  to  be  born,  and  to  a  little  infant 
perhaps  the  one  is  as  painful  as  the  other.  He  that  dies  in  an 
earnest  pursuit  is  like  one  that  is  wounded  in  hot  blood,  who 
for  the  time  scarce  feels  the  hurt.  And,  therefore,  a  mind  fixed 
and  bent  upon  somewhat  that  is  good,  doth  avert  the  dolors 
of  death.  But  above  all,  believe  it,  the  sweetest  canticle  is 
A'tmc  dimi{tis,  when  a  man  has  obtained  worthy  ends  and 
expectations. " 

These  Essays  have  also  many  sentences  which  are  a  text 
for  a  whole  sermon,  as  these  :  — 

"  A  man  that  is  young  in  years  may  be  old  in  hours,  if  he 
have  lost  no  time." 

"  Virtue  is  like  a  rich  stone,  —  best  plain  set." 
"  They  are  happy  men  whose  natures  sort  with  their  voca- 
tions." 

And  we  will  end  these  extracts  from  Bacon's  Essays  — 
which  I  hope  will  give  you  such  a  taste  as  shall  make  you 
desire  to  read  them  in  full  —  with  a  sentence  or  two  from 
his  Essay  on  Studies,  which  every  student  should  commit  lo 
memory :  — 

"  Read  not  to  contradict  and  confute,  nor  to  believe  and  take 
for  granted,  nor  to  find  talk  and  discourse,  but  to  weigh  and 
consider.  Some  books  are  to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed, 
and  some  few  to  be  chewed  and  digested.     .     .     . 

"  Reading  maketh  a  full  man,  conference  a  ready  man,  and 
writing  an  exact  man.  And  therefore,  if  a  man  write  little,  he 
had  need  have  a  great  memory;  if  he  confer  little,  lie  had  need 
have  a  present  wit;  and  if  he  read  little, he  had  need  have  much 
cunning,  to  seem  to  know  that  he  doth  not.  Histories  make 
men  wise;  poets,  witty;  the  mathematics,  subtle;  natural 
philosophy,  deep;  moral,  grave;  logic  and  rhetoric,  able  to 
contend.  Nay,  there  is  no  stand  or  impediment  in  the  wit,  but 
may  be  wrought  out  by  fit  studies." 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  1 2 1 

I  think  after  reading  these  extracts  you  will  agree  that 
there  is  much  riches  in  small  space  in  these  Essays,  and 
that  this  is  a  book  which  is  to  be  "  chewed  and  digested." 


XXI. 

On  the  English  Drama  and  some  of  the  Play-Writers 
WHO  cai\ie  before  Shakespeare. 

ONE  of  the  most  wonderful  things  to  note  in  this  six- 
teenth century  is  the  sudden  growth  of  the  English 
drama.  Until  after  the  middle  of  the  century  there  are 
few  plays  worth  mentioning  as  literature.  All  peoples  have 
some  sort  of  drama  early  in  their  history,  just  as  children 
will  act  out  in  their  plays  that  which  they  see  done  by 
grown-up  people,  —  the  affairs  of  the  household,  the  Church 
service,  the  wedding,  or  the  funeral.  The  early  English 
drama  was  very  like  this  sort  of  child's-play.  The  drama 
was  usually  under  the  direction  of  the  Church,  the  plays  be- 
ing nearly  all  written  by  priests,  and  generally  representing 
some  scene  from  the  Old  or  New  Testament.  These  plays 
(called  miracle-plays,  or  mysteries)  had  such  subjects  as 
the  feast  of  Belshazzar,  the  raising  of  Lazarus,  the  expulsion 
of  Adam  and  Eve  from  Eden  ;  and  it  was  not  felt  irreverent 
to  show  the  most  sacred  scenes  and  characters  on  the  stage. 
If  you  have  heard  or  read  any  account  of  the  Passion  Play, 
still  represented  in  Germany,  in  which  the  trial  and  cruci- 
fixion of  Christ  is  dramatized,  you  will  have  some  idea  of 
what  these  old  plays  were  like. 

One  sometimes  finds  these  early  dramas  very  amusing. 
For  instance,  in  the  play  of  Noah's  Flood,  Mrs.  Noah  is  a 
high-tempered  scold,  who  refuses  to  go  into  the  ark  unless 
all  her  neighbor-gossips  are  saved  as  well  as  herself,  and 
when  carried  into  the  ark  by  main  force  by  her  sons,  she 
boxes  Noah's  ears,  in  a  towering  rage,  on  entering.  The 
play  of  Lucifer's  Fall  represents  Lucifer  as  a  stage  viUain 


122  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

of  the  deepest  dye  ;  and  all  sacred  incidents  are  treated  in 
the  homeliest,  most  matter-of  fact  manner.  Up  to  the 
middle  of  the  sixteenth  century,  the  century  in  which 
Shakespeare  was  born,  the  literature  of  the  drama  was  almost 
all  of  this  crude  sort. 

I  shall  not  weary  you  with  a  history  of  the  early  drama, 
or  enumerate  the  old  plays  written  before  Shakespeare's 
time.  Let  me  tell  you  only  that  the  first  comedy  that  had 
the  form  and  spirit  of  English  comedy  was  Roister 
Doistcr,  written  by  an  Eton  schoolmaster,  Nicholas 
Udall,  and  that  the  oldest  tragedy  was  written  by  Thomas 
Sackville,  and  had  for  its  subject  Fenex  and  Par  rex,  two 
British  princes  descended  from  the  great  Brutus.  Their 
story  was  told  by  Layamon,  in  the  Brut,  whence  later  poets 
took  it. 

Passing  by  most  of  the  plays  and  play-writers  who  came 
before  Shakespeare,  I  will  touch  brieily  upon  the  four  most 
remarkable  men  who  preceded  him  in  writing  for  the  stage. 
These  are  George  Peele,  Robert  Greene,  John  Lyly,  and 
Christopher  Marlowe. 

George  Peele  bore  a  bad  reputation  even  in  his  time, 
which  was  not  so  fastidious  as  our  own.  He 
seems  to  have  been  a  ragged  fellow,  indifferent  to 
fame  or  fortune,  not  caring  whether  he  got  his  dinner  by  a 
song,  a  jest,  or  even  beggary  or  fraud.  Yet  he  wrote  plays 
in  which  there  is  a  good  deal  of  poetic  merit,  and  he  was 
a  scholar  of  classical  training,  as  his  poetry  shows.  The 
Arraignment  of  Paris,  The  Old  Wives'  Tale,  David  and 
Bethsabe,  The  Battle  of  Alcazar,  are  titles  of  his  plays. 

The  Arraignment  of  Paris  tells  the  classic  story  of  the 
Judgment  of  Paris  and  the  award  of  the  golden  apple. 
With  the  characteristic  flattery  of  the  age,  Peele  ends  this 
drama  by  bringing  in  Diana  to  present  the  apple  to  Queen 
Elizabeth,  who  is  judged  to  possess  the  beauty  of  Venus, 
the  majesty  of  Juno,  and  the  wisdom  of  Miner\a,  all  com- 
bined in  her  own  royal  person. 

Peele  has  a  delicate,  poetic  touch,  although  he  has  less 
dramatic  power  than  any  of  the  four  poets  I  have  men- 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  I  23 

tioned.     His  allusions  to  Nature  are  in  the  spirit  of  a  true 
poet.     He  speaks  of — 

"  The  primrose  and  the  purple  hyacinth, 
The  dainty  violet  and  the  wholesome  minth, 
The  double  daisy,  and  the  cowslip,  queen 
Of  summer  flowers,  do  ovcrpeer  the  green, 
And  round  about  the  valley  as  ye  pass, 
Ye  may  ne  see,  for  peeping  flowers,  the  grass." 

We  can  hardly  believe  that  the  man  who  was  familiar 
with  such  blossoms  could  be  a  frequenter  of  miserable 
taverns  and  a  low  fellow  given  to  coarse  jests  and  rude 
buffoonery. 

Robert  Greene's  life  is  not  more  pleasant  to  read  of 
than  that  of  George  Peele,  his  friend  and  associ- 
ate.  Greene  was  a  man  of  education,  and  says 
he  had  a  degree  from  both  Oxford  and  Cambridge.  He 
travelled  on  the  Continent,  and  wasted  his  time  in  bad  com- 
pany, until  finally  he  lost  his  health  and  his  credit  with  his 
friends.  "  Then,"  he  says,  "  I  became  an  author  of  plays  and 
of  penny-a-line  pamphlets,  so  that  I  soon  grew  famous  in 
that  quality,  that  who  for  that  trade  known  so  ordinary  about 
London  as  Robin  Greene." 

His  death  was  caused  by  a  supper  in  which  he  ate  and 
drank  too  much  of  pickled  herring  and  Rhenish  wine.  He 
died  in  a  wretched  lodging,  where  the  wife  of  a  poor  shoe- 
maker tended  him  in  his  last  moments,  and  after  death 
crowned  him,  at  his  request,  with  the  poet's  garland  of  bay- 
leaves.  Can  you  imagine  anything  more  grim  than  the  dead 
poet  in  his  miserable  garret,  crowned  with  the  green  wreath 
of  bays? 

Greene  wrote  a  very  large  number  of  novels,  poems, 
plays,  and  a  great  many  pamphlets  or  shorter  works,  which, 
in  that  day,  were  called  prose  tracts.  Of  these  prose 
tracts,  the  two  most  notable  are  The  Triumph  of  Time  —  a 
very  pretty  story,  and  well  told,  used  by  Shakespeare  for  the 
plot  oi  The  Wijifcr's  Talc  —  and  The  Groat's  Worth  of 
Wit,  bought  with  a  Million  of  Repentance,  written  in  his 
last  illness,  in  which  he  recounts  the  chief  facts  of  his  life, 


124  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

and  gives  vent  to  his  penitence  for  his  bad  and  useless 
career.  This  last  tract  has  been  much  talked  about,  be- 
cause there  is  an  ill-natured  allusion  in  it  to  Shakespeare, 
which  makes  it  seem  as  if  Greene  and  his  companions  were 
rather  jealous  of  Shakespeare's  success  as  a  play-writer,  and 
accused  him  of  using  some  of  their  works  as  the  foundation 
for  his  more  popular  plays. 

Greene  wrote  five  plays  known  to  be  his.  He  may  have 
written  a  good  many  more  which  have  not  come  down  to 
us.  The  best  of  his  plays,  I  think,  is  The  Honorable 
History  of  Friar  Bacon  and  Friar  Bungay.  The  plot  of 
this  is  varied ;  one  part  of  it  turns  on  the  loves  of  Prince 
Edward  and  his  friend  Ned  Lacy,  tlarl  of  I>incoln,  for 
Margaret,  a  gamekeeper's  fliir  daughter ;  the  other  part  of 
the  plot  relates  to  the  great  friar,  Iiacon,  the  most  learned 
Englishman  of  the  thirteenth  century,  of  whom  many  won- 
derful fables  were  told  in  English  legend  and  ballad. 

Bacon  and  Bungay  have  made  a  brass  head,  which,  it 
has  been  predicted,  will  speak,  and  tell  them  how  to  make 
a  wall  to  surround  England,  and  render  her  proof  against 
all  foes.  When  the  head  is  done,  the  friar,  worn  out  with 
sleepless  work,  sets  his  servant.  Miles,  to  watch  it  while  he 
gets  a  little  sleep.  Here  is  the  scene  in  which  Miles  is 
set  to  watch  :  — 

[EnU-r  Friar  Bacon,  with  a  lighted  lamp  and  a  hook  in  his  hand ; 
Miles  folloTuing  him, artned  in  a  ridiculous  manner,  from  head  to  foot. \ 

Bacon  {ilrawiiig  the  curtains  and  revealing  the  brazen  head).     Miles, 
where  are  you .'' 
Miles.     Here,  sir. 

Bacon.     How  chance  you  tarry  so  long  ? 

Miles.  Think  you  that  the  watching  of  the  brazen  head  craves  no 
furniture?  I  warrant  you,  sir,  I  have  so  armed  myself  that  if  all  your 
devils  come,  I  will  not  fear  them  an  inch. 

Bacon.     Miles,  thou  know'st  that  I  have  dived  into  hell, 
And  sought  the  darkest  palaces  of  the  fiends; 
That  with  my  magic  spells  great  lielcephon 
Hath  left  his  lodge  and  kneeled  at  my  cell ; 
The  rafters  of  the  earth  rent  from  the  poles, 
And  three-formed  Luna  hid  her  silver  looks, 
Trembling  upon  her  concave  continent, 
When  Bacon  read  ui)on  his  magic  book. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  12$ 

With  seven  years  tossing  necromantic  charms. 
Poring  upon  dark  Hecate's  principles, 
I  have  framed  out  a  monstrous  head  of  brass, 
That,  by  tlie  enchanting  forces  of  the  devil, 
Shall  tell  out  strange  and  uncouth  aphorisms. 
And  girt  fair  England  with  a  wall  of  brass. 
Bungay  and  I  have  watched  these  threescore  days, 
And  now  our  vital  spirits  crave  some  rest.     .     .     . 
Now,  Miles,  in  thee  rests  Friar  Bacon's  weal ; 
The  honor  and  renown  of  all  his  life 
Hangs  in  the  watching  of  this  brazen  head.     .     .     . 
This  night  thou  watch,  for  ere  the  morning  star 
Sends  out  his  glorious  glister  in  the  north. 
The  head  will  speak;  then.  Miles,  upon  thy  life, 
Wake  me,  for  then,  by  magic  art,  I  '11  work 
To  end  my  seven  years'  task  with  excellence.     .     .     . 
Draw  close  the  curtains,  Miles ;  now,  for  thy  life, 
Be  watchful  and —  \He  falls  asleep. 

Miles-  So  !  I  thought  you  would  talk  yourself  asleep  anon,  and  'tis 
no  marvel.for  Bungay  on  the  days,  and  he  on  the  nights,  have  watched 
just  these  ten  and  fifty  days.  Now  this  is  the  night,  and  't  is  my  task 
and  no  more.  Heaven  bless  me !  what  a  goodly  head  it  is,  and  a  nose  ! 
You  talk  of  nos  mitem  glorificare,  but  here'^  a  nose  that  I  warrant  may 
be  called  iios  antem  populare,  —  for  the  people  of  the  parish.  Well,  I 
am  furnished  with  weapons;  now,  sir,  I  will  set  me  down  by  a  post, 
and  make  it  as  good  as  a  watchman  to  wake  me  if  I  chance  to  slum- 
ber. .  .  .  [A  great  noise  of  thunder  heard.']  Up,  Miles,  to  your  task; 
here  's  some  of  your  master's  hobgoblins  abroad. 

yrhiinder —  The  head  speaks.] 

Head.     Time  is. 

Miles.  Time  is.  Why,  Master  Brazen-head,  have  you  such  a  capi- 
tal nose  and  answer  you  with  syllables,  "  Time  is  "  ?  Is  this  all  my  mas- 
ter's cunning  to  spend  seven  years  study  about  time  is.''  Well,  sir,  it 
may  be  we  shall  have  better  some  orations  of  it  anon.  I  '11  watch 
you  as  narrowly  as  ever  you  were  watched.     .     .    . 

[ T'ln.'.der  and  lightning^ 

The  Head.     Time  was. 

Miles.  Well,  Friar  Bacon,  you  have  spent  your  seven  years'  study 
well,  that  can  make  your  head  speak  but  two  words  at  once, "  Time  was." 
Yea,  marry,  time  was  when  my  master  was  a  wise  man,  but  that  was 
before  he  began  to  make  the  brazen  head.  .  .  .  What!  a  fresh 
noise!     Take  thy  pistols  in  hand,  Miles. 

[  Thunder  again."] 

The  Head.     Time  is  past. 

[Flash  of  lightning,  iti  which  a  hand  appears  with  hammer  that 
breaks  the  head.] 


126  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Miles  {ill  iiffright].  Master!  master  I  Up!  your  head  speaks! 
There's  such  atliunder  and  lightning  that  I  warrant  all  Oxford  is  up 
in  arras.     Out  of  your  bed;  the  latter  day  is  come. 

Bacon  (uroitsiiig).  Mites,  I  come.  Oh,  passing  warily  watched! 
Bacon  will  make  thee  nc.\t  himself  in  love.     When  spake  the  head.' 

Miles.  When  spake  the  head.'  Did  you  not  say  that  it  should  tell 
strange  principles  of  philosophy  .'  Why,  sir,  it  speaks  but  two  words 
at  a  time. 

Bacon.     Why,  villain,  hath  it  spoken  oft? 

Miles.     Oft?     Ay,  marry  hath  it, — thrice;  but   in  all    these    three 
times  it  hath  uttered  only  seven  words. 
Bacon.     As  how  ? 

Miles.     Marry,  sir,  the  first  lime  he  said,  "  Time  is,"  as  if  Fabius 
Commentator  should   have    pronounced   a   sentence ;   then    he  said, 
"Time  was  ;"  and  the  third  time,  with  thunder  and  lightning,  as  in 
great  choler,  he  said,  "  Time  is  past." 
Bacon.     "Y  is  past,  indeed! 

Ay,  villain,  time  is  past ! 

My  life,  my  fame,  my  glory,  —  all  are  past! 

Bacon,  the  turrets  of  thy  hope  are  ruined  down. 

Thy  seven  years'  study  lieth  in  the  dust, 

Thy  brazen  head  lies  broken,  through  a  slave 

That  watched  and  would  not  when  the  head  did  will. 

There  is  a  near  approach  to  the  brightness  and  wit  of 
later  English  comedy  in  Greene ;  and  although  there  is  a 
great  deal  of  rubbish  in  his  writings,  there  is  also  much 
poetry,  and  much  ingenuity  in  the  construction  of  his 
plots.  I  have  always  felt  a  sympathy  with  his  fate  since 
I  read  this  sentence  in  some  old  biography :  "  It  is 
reported  that  he  was  the  first  English  poet  tvlio  ever  wrote 
for  bread.'" 

We  could  not  pass  John  Lvi.y  by  without  mention.     He 

>-  --      seems  to  have  been  more  respectable  in  manners 

1553-1601         ,  .  ,  .  .  ,  *         -     ,  .  - 

and  social  position  than  most  of  this  group  of 

play-writers,  and  he  wrote  one  book,  fashionable  beyond  all 

others  in  its  day,  which  gave  a  new  word  to  the  language. 

This  is  the    romance    of  Euphites,   from  which  the  word 

euphuism    is    derived.     One    hardly  knows  how  to   define 

euphuism.     The  dictionary  says  it  is  "  a  fastidious  delicacy 

of  language  ;  "  but  that  does  not  fully  express  it.      It  was 

a  style  of  speaking  and  writing  full  of  stilted  and  affected 

phrases,  redundant  in   con-.parisons,  crowded  with  foreign 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TUKE.  \  27 

and  classical  allusions,  —  a  simple  meaning  wrapped  up  in 
a  mass  of  words.  We  wonder  that  it  could  have  been 
popular  with  people  of  sturdy  English  common-sense  at 
any  time.  Yet  in  the  court  of  Elizabeth  euphuism  was  so 
fashionable  that  all  the  lords  and  ladies  talked  in  this 
affected  way,  and  one  of  the  historians  says  :  "  That  beauty 
in  court  which  could  not  parley  euphuism  was  as  little 
regarded  as  she  which  now  there  speaks  not  French." 

Yet,  in  spite  of  its  absurdities,  Lyly's  book  has  merit, 
and  does  not  deserve  the  abuse  that  has  been  thrown  upon 
it  by  critics  who  seem  to  believe  it  as  absurd  as  the  speech 
of  those  who  imitated  it.  It  is  full  of  good  sense,  although 
sometimes  expressed  in  such  a  roundabout  manner ;  and 
better  advice  than  he  gives  for  the  rearing  and  education 
of  youth  has  rarely  been  written.  And  the  book  is  full  of 
noble  sentences,  like  these  :  — 

"  It  is  not  descent  of  birth  thatmaketh  gentlemen, — not  great 
manors,  but  good  manners,  that  express  the  image  of  dignity. 
There  is  copper  coin  of  the  same  stamp  that  gold  is,  yet  is  it 
not  current." 

"  The  wise  man  liveth  as  well  in  a  far  country  as  in  his  own 
home.  It  is  not  the  nature  of  the  place,  but  the  disposition  of 
the  person,  that  maketh  life  pleasant." 

"  The  greatest  harm  you  can  do  to  the  envious  is  to  do  well." 

"  If  you  will  be  cherished  when  you  be  old,  be  courteous 
when  you  be  young." 

These  sentences,  gleaned  at  random  from  Euphties,  show 
how  much  there  is  fine  in  it ;  and  when  I  hear  it  spoken  of 
as  a  book  "  which  did  incalculable  mischief  by  vitiating  the 
taste  and  corrupting  the  language,"  I  feel  like  saying,  in 
the  words  of  a  modern  writer,  Charles  Kingsley,  "  Have 
these  critics  ever  read  it?  If  they  have,  I  pity  them  if 
they  have  not  found  it,  in  spite  of  occasional  tediousness 
and  pedantry,  as  brave,  righteous,  and  pious  a  book  as  a 
man  need  look  into." 

Euphues  must  be  classed  among  works  of  fiction,  although 
it  hardly  meets  any  of  our  ideas  of  a  novel.  The  chief 
character  in  the  book  is  Euphues,  a  young  gentleman  of 


128  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

Athens,  who  writes  long  letters  and  keeps  up  interminable 
conversations  with  the  other  characters,  but  chiefly  with 
the  heroine,  Lucilla,  with  whom  he  is  in  love.  By  and  by 
Lucilla  jilts  him,  which  gives  him  an  opportunity  to  inveigh 
in  the  following  style  against  women,  in  one  of  his  letters 
to  his  friend  Philautus  :  — 

"  It  is  a  world  to  see  how  conimoiily  we  are  blinded  with  the 
collusions  of  women,  and  more  enticed  by  their  ornaments 
being  artificial  than  their  proportions  being  natural.  I  loathe 
almost  to  think  on  their  ointments  and  apothecary  drugs,  the 
sleeking  of  their  faces  and  all  their  slibber  sauces,  which  bring 
queasiness  to  the  stomach,  and  disquiet  to  the  mind. 

"Take  from  them  their  periwigs,  their  paintings,  their 
jewels,  their  rolls,  their  bolsterings,  and  thou  shalt  soon  perceive 
a  woman  is  the  least  part  of  herself.  When  they  once  be 
robbed  of  their  robes,  then  will  they  appear  so  odious,  so  ugly, 
so  monstrous  that  thou  wilt  rather  think  them  serpents  than 
saints,  and  so  like  hags  that  thou  wilt  fear  rather  to  be  en- 
chanted than  enamoured.  Look  in  their  closets,  and  there  shalt 
tliou  find  an  apothecary's  shop  of  sweet  confections,  a  surgeon's 
box  of  sundry  salves,  a  pedlar's  pack  of  new  fangles.  Besides 
all  this,  their  shadows,  their  spots,  their  lawns,  their  ruffs,  their 
rings.  If  every  one  of  these  things  severally  be  not  of  force 
to  move  thee,  yet  all  of  them  jointly  should  mortify  thee.  .  .  . 
And  yet,  Philautus,  I  would  not  that  all  women  should  take 
pepper  in  the  nose,  in  that  I  have  disclosed  the  legerdemains 
of  a  few,  for  well  I  know  none  wince  except  she  be  galled, 
neither  any  be  offended  unless  she  be  guilty."' 

Although  Euphues  is  the  most  famous  of  Lyly's  works, 
yet  he  was  noted  in  his  time  as  a  writer  of  plays.  Several 
of  these  had  appeared  before  Shakespeare  began  to  be 
known  as  a  dramatist.  The  best  of  his  plays  is  Campaspe. 
Its  principal  characters  are  Alexander  of  Macedon  and  the 
painter  Apelles.  Alexander  is  in  love  with  a  beautiful 
young  girl,  Campaspe,  whom  he  has  taken  captive  in  war, 
and  employs  Apelles  to  paint  her  portrait.  The  artist  also 
loves  Campaspe,  and  when  the  monarch  discovers  this,  he 
hesitates  for  a  moment  between  jealousy  and  generosity, 
but  at  last  resigns  her  to  Apelles.  It  is  a  very  pretty  plot, 
although  simple  and  without  strong  dramatic  interest.     It 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  1 29 

is  written,  not  in  blank  verse,  but  in  prose,  in  sentences 
that  remind  one  of  Eiiphues  ;  but  Lyly  proved  that  he  was 
a  poet  by  the  beautiful  lyrics  found  in  his  plays.  One  of 
the  most  perfect  of  these  is  the  song  of  Cupid  and  Ca?n- 
paspe,  sung  by  the  painter  Apelles  as  he  works  at  his  easel 
on  the  portrait  of  Campaspe  :  — 

"  Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played 
At  cards  for  kisses  :  Cupid  paid. 
He  stakes  his  quiver,  bow,  and  arrows, 
His  mother's  doves  and  team  of  sparrows : 
Loses  them,  too.      Then  down  he  throws 
The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 
Growing  on  's  cheek  (but  none  knows  how). 
With  these  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 
And  then  the  dimple  of  his  chin  : 
All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win. 
At  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes  : 
She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 
O  Love,  has  she  done  this  to  thee  ? 
What  shall,  alas !  become  of  me  ? " 


XXII. 

On  Christopher   Marlowe,  the  Great  Predecessor  of 
Shakespeare. 

THE  greatest  of  all  the  dramatic  poets  who  wrote  be- 
fore Shakespeare  was  Christopher  Marlowe,  whom 

his  friends  familiarly  called  "Kit."     He  was  a   ,,„^  _„„ 
i  ^  ,   „     ,  ,.    ,      1564-1593 

boon   companion  of  Greene  and  Peele,  a  little 

younger  than  either,  —  born,  indeed,  in  the  very  year  with 
our  great  Shakespeare.  But  he  began  to  write  much  ear- 
lier, and  when  he  died,  only  three  or  four  of  Shakespeare's 
works  had  appeared. 

As  soon  as  Marlowe  left  college  he  went  to  London  and 
began  to  write  for  the  theatre  ;  very  likely  he  acted  too,  as 
most  of  the  play-writers  did  when  they  failed  to  earn  a  live- 
lihood by  the  pen  alone.    He  must  have  begun  to  write  very 

9 


130  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

young,  for  he  was  the  author  of  at  least  six  plays,  and  took 
part,  probably,  in  the  writing  of  several  others ;  yet  he 
was  only  twenty-nine  when  his  life  came  to  a  disreputable 
and  tragic  end.  A  qu.urel  arose  between  himself  and  a 
boon  companion  named  Francis  Archer  in  a  tavern  which 
they  frequented,  and  as  Marlowe  angrily  drew  his  dagger. 
Archer  seized  his  hand  and  stabbed  him  in  the  head,  so 
that,  according  to  an  old  rhyme  which  tells  the  story,  — 

"  He  groaned,  and  word  spake  never  more, 
Pierced  through  both  eye  and  brain." 

Marlowe  has  a  bad  reputation,  although  whether  it  was 
entirely  deserved  it  would  be  difficult  now  to  tell.  The 
Puritans  had  begun  in  his  time  to  wage  a  fierce  war  against 
the  stage  and  all  dramatic  writings,  and  they  lost  no  oppor- 
tunity to  hold  up  to  horror  all  persons  who  were  concerned 
in  plays  or  play-writing.  The  manner  of  Marlowe's  death 
added  to  the  bad  odor  in  which  he  was  held  by  his  enemies, 
but  we  must  remember  that  this  was  an  age  in  which  tavern 
quarrels  and  street  broils  were  not  infrequent,  and  better 
men  than  Marlowe  were  quick  to  draw  daggers,  and  to  use 
them.  Although  he  was  no  better,  he  may  have  been  no 
worse  than  many  other  men  whose  names  have  not  been  so 
roughly  handled.  However  this  may  be,  a  strong  moral 
was  drawn  from  Marlowe's  death  by  the  opposers  of  the 
drama,  and  a  ballad  on  the  subject,  called  The  Athi'isfs 
Tragedy,  in  which  Marlowe  is  called  Wormall,  ends  with 
this  stanza :  — 

"Take  warning,  ye  that  plays  do  make, 
And  ve  that  them  do  act ; 
Desist  in  time,  for  Wormall's  sake, 
And  think  upon  this  fact." 

The  first  play  by  Marlowe  of  which  we  have  any  knowl- 
edge is  the  first  part  of  Tatnburlaitie  the  Great.  It  is 
claimed  by  the  most  careful  students  that  this  is  the  first 
play  in  which  blank  verse  was  used  in  a  public  theatre. 
Before  this,  the  plays  had  been  either  in  prose  or  rhyme, 
blank  verse  having  been  used  only  in  private  performances 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  131 

at  court,  or  before  college  societies.  You  will  be  interested, 
therefore,  to  read  a  little  of  this  verse,  which  is  thus  claimed 
to  be  the  beginning  of  English  dramatic  poetry. 

Tamburlaine,  the  hero  of  the  play,  is  a  shepherd  who  has 
taken  up  arms  with  design  to  become  king  of  Persia.  He 
is,  like  all  Marlowe's  heroes,  a  man  of  boundless  ambition 
and  courage.  These  lines  which  I  quote  are  from  his  speech 
to  Theridamas,  one  of  the  captains  of  the  king  of  Persia, 
who  has  been  sent  to  take  Tamburlaine  prisoner.  The 
great  warrior  thus  persuades  the  envoy  of  the  king  to 
desert  his  master  and  follow  the  fortunes  of  the  great 
Tamburlaine  :  — 

Tamburlaine.     In  thee,  thou  valiant  man  of  Persia, 
I  see  the  folly  of  thy  emperor. 
Art  thou  but  captain  of  a  thousand  horse, 
That  by  characters  graven  in  thy  brows. 
And  by  thy  martial  face  and  stout  aspect, 
Deserves  to  have  the  leading  of  a  host  ? 
Forsake  thy  king,  and  do  but  join  with  me, 
And  we  will  triumph  over  all  the  world. 
I  hold  the  Fates  bound  fast  in  iron  chains, 
And  with  my  hand  turn  Fortune's  wheel  about; 
And  sooner  shall  the  sun  fall  from  his  sphere. 
Than  Tamburlaine  be  slain  or  overcome. 
Draw  forth  thy  sword,  thou  mighty  man-at-arms. 
Intending  but  to  raze  my  charmed  skin. 
And  Jove  himself  will  stretch  his  hand  from  heaven 
To  ward  the  blow  and  shield  me  safe  from  harm. 

If  thou  wilt  stay  with  me,  renowned  man, 

And  lead  thy  thousand  horse,  with  my  conduct, 

Besides  thy  share  of  this  Egyptian  prize. 

Those  thousand  horse  shall  sweat  with  martial  spoil 

Of  conquered  kingdoms  and  of  cities  sacked  ; 

Both  we  will  walk  upon  the  lofty  cliffs, 

And  Christian  merchants,  that  with  Russian  stems 

Plough  up  huge  furrows  in  the  Caspian  Sea, 

Shall  rail  to  us  as  lords  of  all  the  lake ; 

Both  wc  will  reign  as  consuls  of  the  earth, 

And  mighty  kings  shall  be  our  senators. 

Jove  sometimes  masked  in  a  shepherd's  weed, 

And  by  those  steps  that  he  has  scaled  the  heavens, 

May  we  become  immortal  like  the  gods. 

Join  with  me  now  in  this  my  mean  estate 


132  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

(I  call  it  mean,  because,  being  yet  obscure, 
The  nations  far  removed  admire  me  not). 
And  when  my  name  and  honor  shall  be  spread 
As  far  as  Boreas  claps  his  brazen  wings, 
Or  fair  Bootes  sends  his  cheerful  light, 
Then  thou  shalt  be  competitor  with  me, 
And  sit  with  Tamburlaine  in  all  his  majesty. 

This  speech  is  in  a  lofty  spirit  of  boasting,  but  it  showed 
the  power  of  what  Ben  Jonson  called  "  Marlowe's  mighty 
line." 

Of  all  Marlowe's  plays,  none  has  been  so  famous  as 
Faustus,  which  has  the  same  plot  that  the  great  German 
poet,  Goethe,  used  afterwards.  There  is  great  power  in 
Marlowe's  play,  although  in  parts  it  is  very  weak  and  pu- 
erile. Faust  sells  his  soul  to  Mephistopheles  on  condition 
that  for  twenty-four  years  Mephistopheles  shall  be  his  ser- 
vant and  do  his  will.  The  finest  passage  in  Faustus  is  the 
close  of  the  play,  in  which  he  awaits  the  fiends  who  are  to 
bear  away  his  soul  to  eternal  torment.  As  the  clock  slowly 
strikes  eleven,  Faust  is  left  in  his  chamber  alone.  Faust 
speaks : — 

Ah,  Faustus, 

Now  hast  thou  but  one  bare  hour  to  live, 
And  then  thou  must  lie  damned  perpetually  I 
Stand  still,  you  ever-moving  spheres  of  heaven, 
That  time  may  cease,  and  midnight  never  cornel 
Fair  Nature's  eye,  rise,  rise  again,  and  make 
Perpetual  day;  or  let  this  hour  be  but 
A  year,  a  month,  a  week,  a  natural  day, 
That  Faustus  may  repent,  and  save  his  soul. 

\Thc  clock  strikes  the  half-hoiir\ 

Ah !  half  the  hour  is  past  ;  't  will  all  be  past  anon. 

O  God  ! 

If  thou  wilt  not  have  mercy  on  my  soul, 

Impose  some  end  to  my  incessant  pain  ; 

Let  Faustus  live  in  hell  a  thousand  years, 

A  hundred  thousand,  and  at  last  be  saved  I 

Oh,  no  end  is  limited  to  damned  souls  I 

Why  wcrt  thou  not  a  creature  wanting  soul  ? 

Oh,  why  is  this  immortal  that  thou  hast  ? 

.  .  .  All  beasts  are  happy, 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  133 

For  when  they  die, 

Their  souls  are  soon  dissolved  in  elements; 

But  mine  must  live,  still  to  be  plagued  in  hell. 

\Clock  strikes  twelve^ 
It  strikes  !  it  strikes  !  now,  body,  turn  to  air, 
Or  Lucifer  will  bear  thee  quick  to  hell ! 

\Stoym  of  thunder  and  lightning. \ 
Oh,  soul,  be  changed  to  little  water  drops, 
And  fall  into  the  ocean,  ne'er  be  found  1 
\At  this  the  devils  enter  and  bear  off  Faustus^ 

The  hero  of  another  of  Marlowe's  plays,  The  Jew  of 
Malta,  is  frequently  compared  with  Shakespeare's  Shylock, 
although  there  is  really  very  little  Hkeness  between  the 
characters  in  the  two  plays.  Barabas,  the  Jew  of  Malta,  is, 
hke  Shylock,  a  man  of  intellect  and  power.  He  says  of 
himself,  "  Barabas  is  born  to  better  chance,  and  framed  of 
finer  mould  than  common  men."  But  he  does  not  excite 
our  sympathy  as  Shylock  does.  His  cruelty  is  overdrawn, 
his  malignity  becomes  vulgar,  and  the  heaped-up  horrors  of 
the  play  become  at  last  ridiculous.  But  although  the  play 
is  unequal,  there  are  strong  passages  in  it.  When  the  gov- 
ernor of  Malta  has  taken  from  the  Jews  half  their  property 
to  fill  the  treasury  of  the  city,  and  has  ordered  that  Barabas 
be  stripped  of  half  his  wealth,  the  old  Israelite  thus  hurls 
curses  after  him  :  — 

The  plagues  of  Egypt  and  the  curse  of  Heaven, 

Earth's  barrenness,  and  all  men's  hatred. 

Inflict  upon  them,  thou  great  Fritnns  Motor, 

And  here,  upon  my  knees  striking  the  earth, 

I  ban  their  souls  to  everlasting  pains 

And  extreme  tortures  of  the  fiery  deep. 

That  thus  have  dealt  with  me  in  my  distress.  .  .  . 

1st  yew.     Yet,  r>rother  Barabas,  remember  Job. 

Barabas.     What  tell  you  me  of  Job.-*     I  wot  his  wealth 
Was  written  thus  :  he  had  seven  thousand  sheep. 
Three  thousand  camels,  and  two  hundred  yoke 
Of  laboring  o.xen ;  but  for  every  one  of  these, 
Had  they  been  valued  at  indifferent  rate, 
I  had  at  home,  and  in  mine  argosy  .  .  . 
As  much  as  would  have  bought  his  beasts  and  him, 
And  yet  have  kept  enough  to  live  upon.  .  .  . 

2d  Jew.     Good  Barabas,  be  patient. 


134  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Barabas.     Ay,  I  pray  you  leave  me  in  my  patience. 
You,  that  were  ne'er  possessed  of  wealth,  are  pleased  with  want; 
But  give  him  liberty  at  least  to  mourn. 
That  in  a  field,  amidst  his  enemies. 
Doth  see  his  soldiers  slain,  himself  disarmed, 
And  knows  no  means  for  his  recovery. 

There  is,  I  am  sure,  great  power  in  the  passages  I  have 
quoted,  and  when  we  remember  they  were  written  by  a 
man  so  young,  when  the  English  drama  existed  only  in  very 
crude  forms,  and  without  passion  or  dramatic  interest,  we 
must  admire  a  genius  of  such  originality,  which  blazed  so 
highly  and  went  out  so  suddenly. 

Besides  these  which  I  have  mentioned,  Marlowe  wrote 
the  Tragedy  of  Edward  II.,  which  has  reminded  some 
readers  of  Shakespeare's  Richard  IL,  principally  because 
the  fate  of  these  two  kings  has  so  much  resemblance. 
There  are  also  two  other  plays,  of  Lusfs  Dominion  and  the 
Massacre  at  Paris,  which  are  doubtfully  ascribed  to  him, 
both  of  which  are  very  much  in  his  style.  In  nearly  all 
these  plays  his  heroes,  like  Barabas  and  Tamburlaine,  are 
men  of  great  thirst  for  power  and  of  unbridled  ambition. 
Perhaps  Marlowe  painted  in  them  the  passions  that  mlcd  in 
his  own  breast ;  perhaps,  too,  like  Faust,  he  was  consumed 
with  insatiate  desire  for  dominion  over  the  whole  realm  of 
knowledge.  In  spite  of  his  faults,  none  of  the  dramatists 
before  Shakespeare  approach  him  in  genius,  and  I  leave 
him  regretfully,  wishing  we  might  dwell  longer  on  his 
merits. 

There  are  several  other  names,  well  noted  in  their  time, 
which  meet  us  on  the  threshold  of  the  Shakespearean  age. 
Thomas  Kvd  was  one  of  the  popular  play-writers  in  Lon- 
don when  Shakespeare  first  began  to  try  his  hand  at  au- 
thorship, and  Kyd's  Spanish  Tragedy  then  delighted  the 
theatre-goers.  Thomas  Nash,  also  a  play-writer,  and  a 
friend  of  Marlowe  and  Greene,  had  produced  his  play  of 
Will  Sii7nmet^ s  last  Will  and  Testament,  in  a  barn  on  the 
outskirts  of  London,  when  the  players  were  driven  outside 
the  city  by  the  raging  of  the  plague.     In  this  play  is  a  most 


Oy  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  1 35 

musical  little   spring- song,   which  will  give  you  an  idea  of 
Nash's  quality  as  a  poet :  — 

"  Spring,  the  sweet  spring,  is  the  year'?  pleasant  king ; 
Then  blooms  each  thing,  then  maids  dance  in  ring, 
Cold  doth  not  sting,  the  pretty  birds  do  sing 
Cuckoo,  jug,  jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo  ! 

"  The  palm  and  May  make  country  houses  gay, 
Lambs  frisk  and  play,  the  shepherds  pipe  all  day, 
And  hear  we  aye  birds  tune  this  merry  lay, 
Cuckoo,  jug,  jug,  pu-we,  to  witta-woo  ! 

"  The  fields  breathe  sweet,  the  daisies  kiss  our  feet, 
Young  lovers  meet,  old  wives  a  sunning  sit; 
In  every  street  these  tunes  our  ears  do  greet. 
Cuckoo,  jug,  jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo  !  " 

Another  poet,  Thomas  Lodge,  wrote  several  plays,  a 
number  of  them  in  conjunction  with  other  play-  g.  , 
writers.  His  best  work,  for  us,  is  a  beautiful  known, 
story  called  Rosalynd,  or,  Euphues'  Golden  Died  1625. 
Legacy,  a  really  golden  bequest,  because  Shakespeare  used 
it  for  the  plot  of  that  most  beautiful  play,  As  You  Like  It. 
Lodge  early  gave  up  writing  stories  and  dramas,  and  after- 
wards became  a  physician.  He  wrote  a  treatise  on  the 
plague  which  raged  in  London,  but  he  could  not  have  found 
its  cure,  for  he  died  of  the  disease  shortly  afterwards. 

I  have  thus  briefly  touched  upon  the  chief  names  among 
the  dramatists  who  heralded  Shakespeare,  the  poets  who 
were  at  work  for  the  stage  when  he  first  came  to  London. 
They  were  nearly  all  men  of  fiery  imagination,  using  lan- 
guage with  a  freedom  and  unconvenlionality  which  no  mod- 
ern poet  could  venture  upon,  and  v.-hich  would  not,  to-day, 
be  tolerated.  These  men  set  the  fashion  for  later  poets, 
and  helped  establish  the  rules  laid  down  by  our  grammarians 
and  dictionary-makers ;  nowadays  words  have  each  their 
rank  and  place  in  language,  and  whoever  dares  misuse  one 
is  arraigned  by  a  host  of  verbal  critics. 

The  most  fortunate  thing  in  the  beginning  of  the  English 
drama  is  that  these  early  writers  wxre  not  afraid  to  be  orig- 


136  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

inal.  They  adhered  to  no  models,  and  did  not  follow  the 
rules  of  the  elder  literature  of  Greece  and  of  Rome.  True, 
they  were  men  of  classical  learning,  and  their  verses  are 
stuffed  full  of  classical  allusions  which  show  this.  Greene's 
milkmaids  and  farmers  talk  of  Apollo  and  Diana,  and 
other  gods  and  goddesses,  as  if  they  were  fellow-servants, 
and  the  names  of  ancient  myth  and  history  constantly 
appear  in  Marlowe  and  Peele.  Yet,  in  spite  of  this,  they 
kept  dramatic  poetry  free  from  bonds.  They  gave  it  a  liv- 
ing reality,  and  put  into  it  human  passion.  In  a  word, 
they  made  a  national  drama. 

The  English  drama  owes  its  best  part  to  that  sturdy  Teu- 
tonic spirit,  underlying  all  that  is  best  in  our  literature, 
which  resented  too  much  innovation  on  its  native  quality, 
and  would  speak  out  for  itself,  in  spite  of  fashions  of  speech 
regarded  as  more  exact  or  more  comely.  These  earlier 
dramatists  were  fit  precursors  of  Shakespeare,  who,  great 
as  he  was,  owed  much  to  the  fact  that  such  men  preceded 
him. 


XXIII. 

On  William  Shakespeare,  his  Life,  Character,  A^rD 
Works. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  is  the  greatest  name  in 
English   poetry,    and    ranks   among   the   greatest 
of  the  world.     The  Greek   Homer,  the  Italian  Dante,  the 
English  Shakespeare,  are  three  grand  figures  that 
stand   out    pre-eminent    in    the    history    of  the 
world's  literature   for  three   thousand  years. 

Of  the  man  Shakespeare  very  few  facts  are  known ;  but 
this  concerns  us  less,  because  it  is  with  the  poet,  and  not 
with  the  man,  that  we  have  to  deal.  He  was  born  at  Strat- 
ford-upon-Avon, in  Wanvickshire,  of  a  respectable  family,  his 
father  a  well-to-do  townsman  who  held  several  offices.     He 


ON  ENGL  ISH  LITER  A  TURE.  1 3  7 

went  to  the  grammar-school  in  his  native  tovm  probably  till 
he  was  about  fourteen.  Then  some  of  his  biographers 
think  he  may  have  been  a  lawyer's  clerk,  as  that  would  ex- 
plain the  close  knowledge  of  law  terms  that  he  shows  in 
his  plays ;  others  argue  that  he  taught  school ;  others  still, 
that  he  was  an  apprentice  to  a  butcher.  Whether  he  fol- 
lowed any  or  all  of  these  callings,  is  not  certain ;  the  only 
fact  of  which  we  are  certain,  between  the  time  of  his  leav- 
ing school  and  going  to  London,  is  that  at  eighteen  he 
married  Anne  Hathaway,  who  lived  in  the  village  of 
Shottery,  a  mile  or  two  from  Stratford,  and  that  after  the 
birth  of  three  children,  and  when  he  was  about  twenty- 
three  years  old,  he  went  to  London  to  seek  his  fortune. 

There  is  an  old  story  that  he  went  deer-poaching  at 
Charlecote,  the  estate  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  a  few  miles 
from  Stratford,  and  that  his  arrest  and  trial  for  this  trespass 
were  the  direct  cause  of  his  leaving  his  native  town.  But 
this  story  has  been  doubted ;  and  so  has  another  tradition 
that  when  he  reached  London  he  first  gained  a  scanty  liv- 
ing by  holding  horses  outside  the  theatre  for  gentlemen 
who  came  to  see  the  play.  Whether  either  of  these  stories 
is  true  makes  very  little  difference  in  this  history.  It  is 
certain  that  he  was  not  long  in  London  before  he  was  em- 
ployed in  a  company  of  players  in  some  capacity.  He  was 
an  actor  as  well  as  a  play-writer ;  we  do  not  know  which 
calling  he  took  up  first.  It  seems  to  me  probable  that  his  first 
plays  were  written  in  collaboration  with  other  play-wrights, 
or  that  he  first  revised  and  adapted  other  men's  works  to 
meet  the  demands  of  stage  action.  In  such  kind  of 
attempts  he  could  prove  his  ability  before  producing  any 
drama  entirely  original.  In  any  case,  his  rise  was  rapid. 
He  had  not  been  in  London  five  years  before  he  began 
to  be  known  as  a  writer  and  to  be  heard  of  in  the  com- 
pany of  the  best  wits  of  the  time ;  in  ten  years  he  was 
able  to  buy  one  of  the  finest  estates  in  his  native  town ; 
three  or  four  years  later,  he  bought  more  lands,  gardens, 
and  orchards  in  Stratford;  and  finally,  in  the  year  161 6, 
when  he  was  fifty-two  years  old,  a  prosperous  man,  in  the 


138  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

full  vigor  of  life,  he  died  suddenly  of  a  fever,  and  was 
buried  in  the  little  church  in  his  native  town.  This  bald 
outline  of  a  life  is  all  we  have  of  our  greatest  poet. 

There  has  been  much  question  and  debate  about  the 
amount  of  Shakespeare's  learning,  and  allhough  there  are 
some  ingenious  arguments  to  prove  him  a  scholar,  it  seems 
evident  that  his  opportunities  for  scliolastic  education  were 
not  equal  to  those  of  most  literary  men  of  his  time.  He 
was  fourteen  when  he  left  the  town  grammar-school,  and  he 
never  entered  college.  But  we  may  be  sure  he  did  not  miss 
any  of  his  opportunities.  I  fancy  him  an  eager  reader  of 
all  the  books  he  could  lay  hands  on.  I'he  popular  ballads, 
the  old  chronicles,  the  tales  translated  from  Latin,  French, 
and  Italian,  which  were  printed  in  small,  paper-covered 
pamphlets,  and  called  chap-books,  —  all  these  would  furnish 
food  for  his  devouring  imagination.  He  had  also,  I  can 
easily  fancy,  an  eager  ear,  which  was  no  less  a  source  of 
culture  than  the  eye.  No  speech  of  the  clever  people  he 
met  in  London  fell  unheeded  when  Shakespeare  was  by. 
In  the  circle  into  which  he  came,  com'ersations  on  poetry 
and  philosophy,  on  the  new  theories  in  science  and  medicine, 
on  all  the  great  events  of  the  time,  must  have  been  con- 
stantly going  on  about  him.  He  must  have  heard  the  new 
l)hilosophy  of  Bacon  discussed  by  the  most  thoughtful 
men  of  the  day ;  he  could  hear  the  cases  of  law  argued  by 
the  most  astute  lawyers ;  the  literature  of  Greece  and  that 
of  Rome  were  quoted  from  and  discussed  by  the  scholars 
from  the  university,  who,  like  himself,  were  getting  their 
bread  by  writing  for  the  stage ;  the  brilliant  actions  of 
Queen  Elizabeth's  soldiers  and  sailors  were  the  theme  of 
discourse  at  every  tavern ;  the  romantic  voyages  of  English 
ships  in  the  attempts  at  the  settlement  of  this  untried  con- 
tinent, were  recounted  by  men  who  took  part  in  them. 
Never  was  any  age  richer  in  ideas  than  the  age  of  Shake- 
speare ;  the  very  air  swarmed  with  them,  and  all  that  he 
heard  he  gathered  up  into  the  vast  storehouse  of  his  brain 
and  reproduced  in  lines  that  have  since  made  the  world 
wonder  at  the  boundless  depths,  the  prophetic  heights,  of 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  1 39 

his  knowledge.  This  was  genius,  that  could  make  even  a 
commonplace  suggestion  that  had  fallen  from  the  hps  of 
some  of  his  associates  wear  in  his  verse  an  air  of  prophecy. 
One  of  the  most  potent  qualities  of  all  the  great  poets  of 
the  world  is  this  power  of  absorbing  all  that  touches  them, 
of  appropriating  from  every  channel  all  that  can  feed  and 
enrich  them ;  and  this  quality  evidently  was  Shakespeare's 
in  an  unusual  degree. 

When  he  died,  in  1616,  his  plays  had  never  been  col- 
lected in  a  volume,  and,  indeed,  many  of  them  had  never 
been  printed  at  all.  This  has  been  a  matter  of  wonder  among 
many  critics,  and  from  this  some  have  argued  that  Shake- 
speare was  quite  indifferent  to  his  own  fame.  I  do  not  be- 
lieve this  theory  to  be  true.  If  we  can  judge  anything  of 
his  personal  feeling  from  his  Sonnets,  where  he  seems  to 
have  revealed  himself  as  he  never  does  in  his  plays,  his 
genius  had  that  consciousness  of  its  own  power  which  great 
genius  almost  always  possesses.  Again  and  again  he  claims 
the  immortality  of  his  lines,  as  when  he  says :  — 

"  Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 

Of  princes,  shall  outlive  this  powerful  rhyme  ; 
But  you  shall  shine  more  bright  in  these  contents. 
Than  unswept  stone  besmeared  with  sluttish  time." 

SO.NNET  LV. 

"  Or  I  shall  live  your  epitaph  to  make, 

Or  you  survive,  when  I  in  earth  am  rotten ; 
From  hence  your  memory  death  cannot  take, 

Although  in  me  each  part  will  be  forgotten. 
Your  name  from  hence  immortal  life  shall  have. 

Though  I,  once  gone,  to  all  the  world  must  die : 
The  earth  can  yield  me  but  a  common  grave, 

When  you  entombed  in  men's  eyes  shall  lie. 
Yonr  monument  ihall  be  yny  gentle  verse. 

Which  eyes  7tot  yet  created  shall  o'er-rcad. 
And  tongues  to  be,  your  being  shall  rehearse, 

JVhen  all  the  breathers  of  this  world  are  dead  ; 
You  still  shall  live  —  such  virtue  hath  my  peft  — 

Where  breath  most  breathes,  even  in  the  rnoufhs  of  men." 

Sonnet  LXXXI. 

In  many  like  instances  in  his  Sonnets  docs  he  show  that 
he  did  not  esteem  himself  too  lightly. 


140  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

It  seems  very  reasonable  to  believe,  therefore,  that  the 
latest  work  of  his  life,  when  he  had  gained  fortune  and 
leisure,  would  have  been  to  revise  and  edit  all  his  works. 
Up  to  the  time  of  his  death  it  would  have  been  unbusiness- 
like and  unprofitable  to  interrupt  his  work  for  the  theatre 
(a  theatre  in  which  he  held  a  pecuniary  interest)  in  order 
to  print  his  plays,  and  so  destroy  in  a  measure  their  acting 
value.  Shakespeare,  by  all  the  arguments  we  can  draw 
from  his  life,  was  a  thrifty,  business-like  man,  interested 
in  the  accumulation  of  property  and  the  building  up 
of  a  name  and  an  estate  in  his  native  Stratford.  It  would 
have  been  both  foolish  and  improvident  to  cut  off  so 
suddenly  a  good  mcome.  l]ut  when  he  settled  down  at 
home  in  Stratford,  he  was  still  in  the  vigor  and  prime  of 
life,  with  leisure  before  him  to  revise  and  rewrite  all  his 
plays  in  his  own  careful  and  painstaking  way,  and  so  put 
them  into  the  shape  in  which  he  would  have  given  them  to 
the  future.  I  cannot  doubt  he  meant  to  do  this,  when  that 
churl,  Death,  came  in,  and  stopped  his  intent ;  and  so  we 
lost  one  of  the  best  legacies  the  past  could  have  made  us, 
—  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  edited  by  himself. 

Seven  years  after  Shakespeare's  death,  John  Heminge 
and  Henry  Condell,  two  of  his  fellow-actors,  who  had 
known  him  well  during  his  career  as  player  and  drama- 
tist, published  the  first  edition  of  his  works  in  a  volume 
containing  thirty-six  plays.  This  is  known  as  the  Folio 
of  1623,  and  is  the  most  valuable  for  students  of  Shake- 
speare. Previously  eighteen  of  these  plays  had  been  printed 
separately  in  smaller  books,  called  Quartos.  As  the  popu- 
lar plays  were  withheld  from  publication  while  they  were 
performed  on  the  stage,  many  of  the  dramas  were  taken 
down  in  a  kind  of  short-hand  at  the  theatre  and  printed  by 
some  publisher,  who  would  get  them  by  foul  means  if  he 
could  not  by  fair  payment.  Such  copies  must  necessarily 
be  full  of  mistakes,  and  as  the  actors,  and  especially  the 
clowns,  often  spoke  much  more  than  was  set  down  for  them, 
there  were  often  gross  interpolations  in  these  unauthorized 
editions.    Some  of  these  Quartos  had  been  more  than  once 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  14I 

printed,  and  of  the  thirty- six  plays  eighteen  had  appeared  in 
this  way.  Heminge  and  Condell,  therefore,  had  for  the  basis 
of  their  work  the  best  of  these  Quartos,  such  stage  copies  of 
the  plays  as  they  could  get,  and  that  intimate  knowledge  of 
the  dramas,  in  which,  as  members  of  the  company  that  first 
produced  them,  they  must  often  have  performed  different 
parts.  But  even  with  their  best  care,  these  first  editors  of 
Shakespeare,  to  whom  we  all  owe  a  debt  of  gratitude,  could 
not  avoid  some  mistakes  in  a  work  so  full  of  difficulties. 

To  these  thirty-six  plays  Pericles  was  afterwards  added, 
making  thirty-seven,  —  the  number  now  usually  included  in 
the  collection  of  his  works.  But  besides  these  thirty-seven, 
there  are  a  number  of  others  which  have  been  claimed  as 
Shakespeare's.  There  are  three  old  plays  still  in  exist- 
ence which  were  printed  in  quarto,  with  Shakespeare's 
name  on  the  title-page,  and  there  are  several  others,  with 
the  initials  W.  Sh.,  or  W.  S.,  which  Heminge  and  Condell 
did  not  put  in  their  edition.  Probably  these  plays  are 
not  Shakespeare's,  but  were  printed  with  his  name  by  some 
publisher  who  knew  Shakespeare's  popularity  as  a  writer 
would  be  likely  to  sell  any  play  that  bore  his  name,  or  even 
his  initials,  on  the  title-page. 

It  was  also  a  common  custom,  at  this  time,  for  writers 
for  the  stage  to  unite  together  to  produce  a  play.  There 
are  some  plays  which  have  as  many  as  five  writers  con- 
cerned in  them,  and  two  and  three  is  a  very  common  num- 
ber in  this  joint  authorship.  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen,  a 
play  afterwards  included  among  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's 
works,  bore  the  name  of  Fletcher  and  Shakespeare  as  authors 
when  first  published  in  quarto;  and  the  ]A:\y  oi  Henry  VIII., 
in  Shakespeare's  works,  is  by  many  critics  believed  to  be  the 
joint  production  of  Shakespeare  and  Fletcher  again.  Thus 
you  will  see  that  it  is  quite  probable  that  some  plays  may 
have  been  put  among  Shakespeare's  of  which  he  was  only 
the  writer  in  part,  and  that  others  may  have  been  left  out  in 
which  Shakespeare  may  have  had  some  share  with  other 
writers.  Some  of  the  thirty-seven  plays  which  we  now  call 
Shakespeare's  are  thus  under  dispute. 


142  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

First  in  doubtfulness  comes  Tiiiis  Aiuironicus,  of  which  I 
shall  say,  for  my  own  part,  I  do  not  think  he  wrote  any  por- 
tion of  it.^  It  is  also  believed  by  many  scholars  that  few 
entire  scenes  in  Pericles  are  by  Shakespeare,  and  that 
Timon  of  Athens  was  a  sketch  of  a  play  from  his  hands 
filled  out  by  other  dramatists. 

The  Taming  of  the  Shrezv  is  certainly  founded  on  an 
older  play  of  the  same  title,  which  it  follows  in  incident. 
As  to  the  three  parts  of  Henry  VI.,  they  are  mostly  all 
under  dispute,  some  critics  believing  that  Shakespeare  did 
not  write  the  first  part,  and  that  the  second  and  third  parts 
are  alterations  of  two  old  plays  which  still  exist  in  evidence  ; 
while  others  claim  that  he  wrote  all  three,  and  that  the 
older  plays  are  his  own  earlier  version  of  the  plays,  which 
he  afterwards  finished  and  revised  more  carefully.  There 
has  been  a  great  deal  written  on  both  sides  on  all  these 
plays,  and  most  of  the  disputed  points  must  forever  remain 
undecided,  or  only  a  matter  of  individual  opinion,  and 
many  lines  which  lie  within  the  covers  of  his  plays  will  be 
read  a  little  doubtfully. 

With  regard  to  the  sources  for  the  plots  of  the  plays, 
our  knowledge  is  clearer.  We  know  whence  most  have 
been  derived,  and  from  this  evidence  it  would  seem  that 
Shakespeare  rarely  invented  his  plots.  He  took  them 
wherever  he  found  them,  —  in  old  poems,  stories,  transla- 
tions from  French  or  Italian  ;  in  the  old  Roman  or  current 
English  history,  —  wherever  he  could  find  a  dramatic  inci- 
dent.   In  Holinshed's  Chronicle  History  may  be  found  many 

^  I  have  for  a  long  time  believed  that  Titus  Andronicus  was  written 
by  the  same  poet  who  wrote  Twist's  Dominion,  a  play  sometimes 
ascribed  to  Marlowe.  The  hero  of  both  plays  is  a  Moor,  and  there  is 
a  general  resemblance,  while  some  lines  are  strikingly  alike,  as,  for 
instance :  — 

And  do  not  now  with  quarrels  shake  the  state, 
Which  is  already  too  much  ruinate. 

Lust's  Dominion, 

Then  after\vards  to  order  well  the  state, 
That  like  events  m.-iy  ne'er  it  ruinate. 

Titus  An.lronicHS. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  1 43 

a  hint.  There  he  read  of  the  troubled  reign  of  Duncan  of 
Scotland,  his  murder  by  Macbeth,  the  appearance  of  the 
three  witches,  and  the  fight  between  Macduff  and  Macbeth. 
In  Plutarch's  Lives  he  read  of  great  Caesar's  assassination, 
the  conspiracy  and  death  of  Brutus,  as  well  as  the  loves 
of  Antony  and  Cleopatra.  In  some  charming  novels  by 
Greene  and  by  Thomas  Lodge  he  got  the  plots  for  Wiii- 
ter's  Tale  and  As  You  Like  It.  Thus  the  eye  of  the  dram- 
atist was  quick  to  see  in  all  places  whatever  would  serve  his 
purpose.  The  inventive  pou'er  of  the  novelist  either  he  did 
not  have,  or  did  not  care  to  use.  I  sometimes  fancy  that 
the  lack  of  this  power  stimulated  the  power  of  the  drama- 
tist, —  that  he  could  better  work  the  men  and  women  of 
his  imagination,  when,  like  the  men  and  women  of  the  real 
world,  they  were  controlled  by  a  destiny  which  he  had  not 
shaped  for  them. 

From  this  slight  glance  I  have  given  you  of  his  methods, 
you  will  see  that  Shakespeare  was  a  busy,  hard-working 
man,  absorbed  and  interested  in  affairs  which  filled  his  life 
for  over  twenty  years.  While  so  many  of  the  other  poets, 
like  Greene,  Peele,  and  Marlowe,  lived  and  died  in  dmnk- 
enness  and  misery,  Shakespeare  was  a  prosperous  share- 
holder in  the  theatre  where  he  was  also  an  actor.  While 
busy  with  his  own  work  for  the  stage,  he  was  interested 
in  revising  and  criticising  the  works  of  other  men;  and 
all  this  time  he  was  building  up  a  good  name  and  estate 
in  his  native  town,  which  was  very  likely  the  main  purpose 
of  his  life.  The  greatest  poet  of  his  age,  he  was  also  a 
practical  man,  with  a  breadth  of  intellect  which  could 
include  the  details  of  the  petty  affairs  of  life. 

In  studying  Shakespeare,  go  first  of  all  to  his  works,  and 
not  to  critics.  To  know  thoroughly  Shakespeare's  plays 
with  appreciative  knowledge  would  be  of  itself  a  liberal 
education.  Even  if  you  should  read  thoroughly  only  four 
such  plays  as  Hamlet,  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  Julius 
Cxsar,  and  As  You  Like  It,  you  would  have  in  your  mind 
a  treasure  which  would  be  priceless. 


144  FAMILIAR   TALKS 


XXIV. 

Extracts  from  Shakespeare's  Plays,  —  "  Richard  II. ;  " 
"  Hamlet  ;  "   "  The  Tempest." 

IN  illustration  of  Shakespeare's  poetry,  I  am  going  to 
give  extracts  from  plays  written  at  different  periods. 
First,  from  Richard  JI.,  which  was  written  in  the  earlier 
period  of  his  career ;  then  from  Hamlet,  which  was  prob- 
ably produced  in  the  middle  of  his  life  as  author ;  and, 
finally,  from  The  Tempest,  which  is  one  of  the  latest,  if  not 
the  very  latest,  of  his  productions.  The  scene  from  Richard 
II.  is  that  in  which  John  of  Gaunt,  the  uncle  of  the  king, 
lying  at  point  of  death,  calls  for  Richard,  that  he  may  warn 
him  of  his  misgovernment,  which  is  bringing  so  many 
troubles  on  the  realm. 

As  the  scene  opens,  Gaunt  lies  on  a  couch,  his  brother, 
the  Duke  of  York,  standing  near :  — 

Gaunt.     Will  the  king  come,  that  I  may  breathe  my  last 
In  wholesome  counsel  to  his  unstaid  youth  ? 

York.     Vex  not  yourself,  nor  strive  not  with  your  breath  ; 
For  all  in  vain  comes  counsel  to  his  ear. 

Gaunt.     Oh,  but  they  say  the  tongues  of  dying  men 
Enforce  attention  like  deep  harmony  : 
Where  words  are  scarce,  they  are  seldom  spent  in  vain, 
For  they  breathe  truth  that  breathe  their  words  in  pain. 
He  that  no  more  must  say  is  listened  more 
Than  they  whom  youth  and  ease  have  taught  to  glose ; 
More  are  men's  ends  marked  than  their  lives  before  : 
The  setting  sun,  and  music  at  the  close. 
As  the  last  taste  of  sweets,  is  sweetest  last, 
Writ  in  remembrance,  more  than  things  long  past: 
Though  Richard  my  life's  counsel  would  not  hear, 
My  death's  sad  talc  may  yet  undeaf  his  ear. 

Methinks  I  am  a  prophet  new  inspired, 

And  thus,  expiring,  do  foretell  of  him  : 

His  fierce,  rash  blaze  of  riot  cannot  last. 

For  violent  fires  soon  burn  out  themselves  ; 

Small  showers  last  long,  but  sudden  storms  are  short; 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  145 

He  tires  betimes  that  spurs  too  fast  betimes ; 

With  eager  feeding  food  doth  choke  the  feeder. 

Light  vanity,  insatiate  cormorant, 

Consuming  means,  soon  preys  upon  itself. 

This  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  scepter'd  isle, 

This  earth  of  majesty,  this  seat  of  Mars, 

This  other  Eden,  demi-paradise, 

This  fortress  built  by  Nature  for  herself 

Against  infection  and  the  hand  of  war. 

This  happy  breed  of  men,  this  little  world, 

This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea, 

Which  serves  it  in  the  office  of  a  wall 

Or  as  a  moat  defensive  to  a  house, 

Against  the  envy  of  less  happier  lands, 

This  blessed  plot,  this  earth,  this  realm,  this  England, 

This  land  of  such  dear  souls,  this  dear,  dear  land,  — 
Dear  for  her  reputation  through  the  world,  — 
Is  now  leased  out  (I  die  pronouncing  it) 
Like  to  a  tenement  or  pelting  farm  : 
England,  bound  in  with  the  triumphant  sea. 
Whose  rocky  shore  beats  back  the  envious  siege 
Of  watery  Neptune,  is  now  bound  in  with  shame, 
With  inky  blots  and  rotten  parchment  bonds  : 
That  England,  that  was  wont  to  conquer  others, 
Hath  made  a  shameful  conquest  of  itself. 

This,  as  I  have  said  before,  is  from  one  of  Shakespeare's 
earher  plays.  You  will  notice,  in  studying  his  works,  that 
when  Shakespeare  was  younger  he  very  often  used  rhymed 
couplets,  as  in  this  extract,  instead  of  blank  verse.  As  he 
grew  older  he  used  rhyme  less  and  less.  In  Hamlet  and 
As  You  Like  It,  which  he  wrote  about  the  middle  of  his 
life,  there  are  few  rhymes,  except  occasionally  a  couplet  at 
the  close  of  a  scene  ;  in  The  Tempest  and  The  Winter's 
Tale,  which  are  among  his  latest  plays,  he  almost  altogether 
discarded  rhymes. 

Hamlet  v?,  one  of  Shakespeare's  grandest  plays,  — probably 
no  other  is  so  much  acted,  read,  and  studied  as  this  one. 
It  is  difficult  to  select  from  a  play  which  is  so  perfect  as  a 
whole  ;  but  as  an  example  of  Shakespeare's  wonderful  humor, 
which  could  touch  at  the  same  time  both  tears  and  laughter, 
I  have  selected  the  scene  in  which  two  gravediggers  are 
making  a  grave  for  Ophelia,  who  has  gone  mad,  and  in  her 


146  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

madness  was  drowned.  The  two  grave-diggers  enter  the 
churchyard,  spatles  in  hand  ;  the  first  is  a  jolly  old  man 
who  has  been  so  long  at  his  business  that  it  is  pure  custom 
with  him ;  the  second  is  younger,  but  less  active  in  wit  than 
his  companion.     The  old  man  begins  thus  :  — 

\st  Clown.  Is  she  to  be  buried  in  Christian  burial  that  wilfully  seeks 
her  own  salvation  ? 

zd  Clown.  I  tell  thee  she  is :  and  therefore  make  her  grave  straight : 
the  crowner  hath  sat  on  her,  and  finds  it  Christian  burial. 

\st  Clown.  How  can  that  be,  unless  she  drowned  herself  in  her  own 
defence  ? 

2d  Clown.     Why,  'tis  found  so. 

1st  Cloiun.  It  must  be  se  offendendo ,  it  cannot  be  else.  For  here 
lies  the  point :  If  I  drown  myself  wittingly,  it  argues  an  act :  and  an 
act  hath  three  branches ;  it  is,  to  act,  to  do,  and  to  perform  :  argal,  she 
drowned  herself  wittingly. 

zd  Clown.     Nay,  but  hear  you,  goodman  delver  — 

1st  Clown.  Give  me  leave.  Here  lies  the  water;  good  :  here  stands 
the  man ;  good :  if  the  man  go  to  this  water,  and  drown  himself,  it  is, 
will  he,  nill  he,  he  goes,  —  mark  you  that  ;  but  if  the  water  come  to 
him  and  drown  him,  he  drowns  not  himself:  argal,  he  that  is  not  guilty 
of  his  own  death  shortens  not  his  own  life. 

2d  Clown.     I'ut  is  this  law  ? 

1st  Cloiun.     Ay,  marry,  is't;  crowner's  (|uest  law. 

2d  Clown.  Will  you  ha'  the  truth  on  't .-'  If  this  had  not  been 
a  gentlewoman,  she  should  have  been  buried  out  of  Christian 
burial. 

ij-^  Clown.  Why,  there  thou  say'st :  and  the  more  pity  that  great 
folk  should  have  countenance  in  this  world  to  drown  or  hang  them- 
selves, more  than  their  even  Christian.  Come,  my  spade.  There  is 
no  ancient  gentlemen  but  gardeners,  ditchers,  and  grave-makers  :  they 
hold  up  Adam's  profession. 

2d  Clown.     Was  he  a  gentleman  ? 

\st  Clo-iun.     He  was  the  first  that  ever  bore  arms. 

2d  Clown.     Why,  he  had  none. 

\st  Clown.  What,  art  a  heathen  ?  How  dost  thou  understand  the 
Scripture  ?  The  Scripture  says  Adam  digged :  could  he  dig  without 
arms  ?  I  '11  put  another  question  to  thee ;  if  thou  answerest  me  not 
to  the  purpose,  confess  thyself  — 

2d  Clozun.     Go  to. 

\st  Clown.  What  is  he  that  builds  stronger  than  either  the  mason, 
the  shipwright,  or  the  carpenter  .'' 

2d  Cloivn.  The  gallows-makcr,  for  that  frame  outlives  a  thousand 
tenants. 

\st  Clown.  I  like  thy  wit  well,  in  good  faith :  the  gallows  does 
well;  but  how  does  it  well  >     It  docs  well  to  those  that  do  ill:  now 


OiV  ENGLISH  LirERATURE.  1 47 

thoa  dost  ill  to  say  tlie  gallows  is  built  stronger  than  the  church  :  argal, 
the  gallows  may  do  well  to  thee.     To  't  again,  come. 

2d  Clown.  Who  builds  stronger  than  a  mason,  a  shipwright,  or 
a  carpenter .'' 

1st  Clown.     Ay,  tell  me  that,  and  unyoke. 
2d  Clown.     Marry,  now  I  can  tell. 
1st  Clown.     To 't. 
2d  Clown.     Mass,  I  cannot  tell. 
[Enter  Havilet,  the  Prince  off  Denmark,  and  his  friend  Horatio,  at  a 
distance.^ 
isi  Clown.     Cudgel  thy  brains  no  more  about  it,  for  your  dull  ass 
will  not  mend  his  pace  with  beating;  and  when  you  are  asked  this 
question  next,  say  ■a.  grave-maker.     The  houses  that  he  makes  last  till 
doomsday.     Go,  get  thee  to  Yaughan ;  fetch  me  a  stoup  of  liquor. 

\2d  Clown  exit. 
1st  Clown  [digs  and  sings]  — 

In  youth,  when  I  did  love,  did  love, 

Methought  't  was  very  sweet 
To  contract,  O,  the  time,  for,  ah,  my  behove, 
O,  methought,  there  was  nothing  meet. 
Hamlet.     Has  this  fellow  no  feeling  of  his  business,  that  he  sings 
at  grave-making .'' 

Horatio.     Custom  hath  made  it  in  him  a  property  of  easiness. 
Hamlet.     'T  is  e'en  so :  the  hand  of  little  employment  hath  the  dain- 
tier sense. 

\st  CloT.vn  [sings\. — 

But  age,  with  his  .stealing  steps, 
Hath  claw'd  me  in  his  clutch. 
And  hath  shipped  me  intil  the  land, 

As  if  I  had  never  been  such.         [Throws  up  a  skull. 

Hamlet.     That  skull  had  a  tongue  in  it,  and  could  sing  once  :  how 

the  knave  jowls  it  to  the  ground,  as  if  it  were  Cain's  jawbone,  that  did 

the  first  murder  !     It  might  be  the  pate  of  a  politician,  which  this  ass 

now  overreaches  ;  one  that  would  circumvent  God,  might  it  not .'' 

Horatio.     It  might,  my  lord. 

Hamlet.  Or  of  a  courtier ;  which  could  say,  "  Good  morrow,  sweet 
lord !  How  dost  thou,  good  lord  ?  "  This  might  be  my  lord  sucha- 
one,  that  praised  my  lord  such-a-one's  horse,  when  he  meant  to  beg 
it;  might  it  not .-' 

Horatio.     Ay,  my  lord. 

Hamlet.  Why,  e'en  so;  and  now  my  Lady  Worms;  chaplcss,  and 
knocked  about  the  mazzard  with  a  sexton's  spade  :  here 's  fine  revolu- 
tion, if  we  had  the  trick  to  see  't.  Did  these  bones  cost  no  more 
the  breeding,  but  to  play  at  loggats  with  'em .'  Mine  ache  to  think 
on't.  .  .  .  [Cloven  tliro7vs  uf)  another  skull. 

Hamlet.  There  's  another  !  Why  might  not  that  be  the  skull  of  a 
lawyer.?  Where  be  his  quiddcts  now,  his  quillets,  his  cases,  his  ten- 
ures, and  his  tricks  ?     Why  does  he  suffer  this  rude  knave  now  to 


148  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

knock  him  about  the  sconce  with  a  dirty  shovel,  and  will  not  tell  him 
of  his  action  of  battery?  Hum!  This  fellow  might  be  in 's  time  a 
great  buyer  of  land,  with  his  statutes,  his  recognizances,  his  fines,  his 
double  vouchers,  his  recoveries :  is  this  the  tine  of  his  fines,  and  the 
recovery  of  his  recoveries,  to  have  his  fine  pate  full  of  fine  dirt  ?  Will 
his  vouchers  vouch  him  no  more  of  his  purchases,  and  double  ones 
too,  than  the  length  and  breadth  of  a  pair  of  indentures  ?  The  very 
conveyances  of  his  lands  will  hardly  lie  in  this  box;  and  must  the 
inheritor  himself  have  no  more?  ...  1  will  speak  to  this  fellow. 
[7b  the  C/cnoi.]     Whose  grave  's  this,  sir  ? 

1st  Clown.     Mine,  sir.  .  .  . 

Hamlet.     I  think  it  be  thine  indeed  ;  for  thou  liest  in  't. 

\st  Clown.  You  lie  out  on't,  sir,  and  therefore  it  is  not  yours: 
for  my  part,  I  do  not  lie  in 't,  and  yet  it  is  mine.  .  .  . 

Hamlet.     What  man  dost  thou  dig  it  for? 

ist  Cloion.     For  no  man,  sir. 

Hamlet.     What  woman,  then  ? 

1st  Clown.     For  none,  neither. 

Hamlet.     Who  is  to  be  buried  in  't  ? 

1st  Clown.  One  that  was  a  woman,  sir ;  but,  rest  her  soul,  she  's 
dead. 

Hamlet.  How  absolute  the  knave  is  1  We  must  speak  by  the 
card,  or  equivocation  will  undo  us.  By  the  Lord,  Horatio,  these 
three  years  I  have  taken  note  of  it ;  the  age  is  grown  so  picked  that 
the  toe  of  the  peasant  comes  so  near  the  heel  of  the  courtier,  he  galls 
his  kibe.  .  .  . 

1st  Clo-vn  \picking  up  a  skull].  Here's  a  skull  now;  this  skull 
has  lain  in  the  earth  three  and  twenty  years. 

Hamlet.     Whose  was  it?  .  .  . 

1st  Chnvit.  A  pestilence  on  him  for  a  mad  rogue  !  'a  poured  a 
flagon  of  Rhenish  on  my  head  once.  This  same  skull,  sir,  was  Yorick's 
skull,  the  king's  jester. 

Hamlet.     This ! 

\st  Clown.     E'en  that. 

Hamlet.  Let  me  sec.  [  Takes  ike  skull.]  Alas,  poor  Yorick  I 
I  knew  him,  Horatio:  a  fellow  of  infinite  jest,  of  most  excellent 
fancy :  he  hath  borne  me  on  his  back  a  thousand  times ;  and  now, 
how  abhorred  in  my  imagination  it  is !  my  gorge  rises  at  it.  Here 
hung  those  lips  that  1  have  kissed  I  know  not  how  oft.  Where  be 
vour  gibes  now  ?  your  gambols  ?  your  songs?  your  flashes  of  merri- 
ment, that  were  wont  to  set  the  table  on  a  roar?  Not  one  now,  to 
mock  your  own  jeering?  Quite  chop-fallen?  Now  get  you  to  my 
lady's  chamber,  and  tell  her,  let  her  ])aint  an  inch  thick,  to  this  favor 
she  must  come ;  make  her  laugh  a't  that. 

One  needs  to  read  over  this  scene  many  times  to  see  how 
mnrh  there  is  in  it,  —  to  detect  all  the  wit,  humor,  pathos, 
and  profound  moralizing. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  1 49 

The  Te^npest  is  one  of  Shakespeare's  very  latest  works. 
It  is  a  play  of  magic  and  fairy,  more  so  than  any  other,  ex- 
cept A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  Prospero,  the  Duke 
of  Milan,  who  has  been  banished  to  a  distant  island  in  the 
seas,  has  there  pursued  the  study  of  magic,  and  has  for  his 
assistant  a  sprite  of  the  air,  the  tricksy  Ariel.  By  the  aid 
of  Ariel,  Prospero  has  raised  a  violent  storm,  in  which  he 
has  drawn  the  fleet  of  the  king  of  Naples  into  an  inlet  of 
the  isle.  Among  the  attendants  of  the  king,  on  board  his 
ship,  is  the  unworthy  brother  of  Prospero,  who  usurped  his 
dukedom  and  sent  him  adrift  on  the  ocean  with  his  daugh- 
ter to  find  a  home  on  this  lonely  island.  By  his  magic, 
Prospero  succeeds  in  getting  back  his  dukedom ;  and  the 
plays  ends  with  a  marriage  between  his  daughter  and 
the  son  of  the  king  of  Naples.  This  is  a  bald  outline  of 
the  beautiful  story,  which  is  more  interesting  to  us  because 
Shakespeare  wrote  it  just  after  reading  an  account  of  a 
strange  shipwreck,  on  one  of  the  Bermuda  Isles,  of  an 
English  vessel  which  was  bound  for  the  colony  of  Virginia ; 
so  that  it  is  in  that  way  connected  with  our  country. 

The  scene  which  I  quote  is  that  in  which  Prospero,  after 
raising  the  tempest,  tells  his  daughter  the  story  of  their 
banishment  from  Milan.  The  scene  is  before  the  cell  of 
Prospero.     He  enters  with  his  daughter  Miranda  : — 

Miranda.     If  by  your  art,  my  dearest  father,  you  have 
Put  the  wild  waters  in  this  roar,  alLay  them. 
The  sky,  it  seems,  would  pour  down  stinking  pitch, 
But  that  the  sea,  mounting  to  the  welkin's  cheek, 
Dashes  the  fire  out.     Oh,  I  have  suffered 
With  those  that  I  saw  suffer  :  a  brave  vessel, 
Which  had,  no  doubt,  some  noble  creature  in  her. 
Dashed  all  to  pieces.     Oh,  the  cry  did  knock 
Against  my  very  heart.     Poor  souls,  they  perished. 
Had  I  been  any  god  of  power,  I  would 
Have  sunk  the  sea  within  the  earth,  or  e'er 
It  should  the  good  ship  so  have  swallowed  and 
The  franghting  souls  within  her. 

Prospero.  Be  collected: 

No  more  amazement  :  tell  your  piteous  heart 
There  's  no  harm  done. 

Mira.  Oh,  woe  the  day  ! 

Tros.  No  harm. 


I50  FAMILTAR    TALK'S 

I  have  done  nothing  but  in  care  of  thee, 
Of  thee,  my  dear  one,  thee,  my  daughter,  who 
Art  ignorant  of  what  thou  art,  nought  knowing 
Of  whence  I  am,  nor  that  I  am  more  better 
Than  Trospero,  master  of  a  full  poor  cell, 
And  thy  no  greater  father. 

Mira.  More  to  know 

Did  never  meddle  with  my  thoughts. 

Pros.  'T  is  time 

I  should  inform  thee  farther.     Lend  thy  hand, 
And  pluck  my  magic  garment  from  me.    So  : 
Lie  there,  my  art.     Wipe  thou  thine  eyes  ;  have  comfort. 

\He  lays  doii'u  his  matt  tic. 
The  direful  spectacle  of  the  wreck,  which  touched 
The  very  virtue  of  compassion  in  thee, 
I  have  with  such  provision  in  mine  art 
So  safely  ordered  that  there  is  no  soul  — 
No,  not  so  much  j^erdition  as  an  hair. 
Betid  to  any  creature  in  the  vessel 

Which  thou  heard'st  cry,  which  thou  saw'st  sink.     Sit  down, 
For  now  thou  must  know  farther. 

Mira.  You  have  often 

Begun  to  tell  me  what  I  am,  but  stopped 
And  left  me  to  a  bootless  inquisition, 
Concluding  "  Stay,  not  yet." 

Pros.  The  hour  's  now  come  : 

The  very  minute  bids  thee  ope  thine  car  ; 
Obey,  and  be  attentive.     Canst  thou  remember 
A  time  before  we  came  unto  this  cell  .'' 
I  do  not  think  thou  canst,  for  then  thou  wast  not 
Out  three  years  old. 

Mira.  Certainly,  sir,  I  can. 

Pros.     By  what  ?  by  any  other  house  or  person  ? 
Of  any  thing  the  image  tell  me  that 
Hath  kept  with  thy  remembrance. 

Mira.  'T  is  far  off, 

And  rather  like  a  dream  than  an  assurance 
That  my  remembrance  warrants.     Had  I  not 
Four  or  five  women  once  that  tended  me  ? 

Pros.     Thou  hadst,  and  more,  Miranda.     l<ut  how  is  it 
That  this  lives  in  thy  mind  ?     What  seest  thou  else 
In  the  dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time  ? 
If  thou  remembcr'st  aught  ere  thou  camcst  here, 
How  thou  camest  here  thou  niayst. 

Mira.  But  that  I  do  not. 

Pros.     Twelve  year  since,  Miranda,  twelve  year  since, 
Thy  father  was  the  iJuke  of  Milan  and 
A  prince  of  power    .  .  . 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  \  5  i 

Mira.  Oh,  the  heavens  ! 

What  foul  play  had  we,  that  we  came  from  thence  ? 
Or  blessed  was  't  we  did  ? 

Pros.  Both,  both,  my  girl : 

By  foul  play,  as  thou  say'st,  were  we  heaved  thence, 
But  blessedly  holp  hither. 

Mira.  Oh,  my  heart  bleeds 

To  think  o'  the  teen  that  I  have  turned  you  to. 
Which  is  from  my  remembrance !     Please  you,  farther. 

Pros.     My  brother  and  thy  uncle,  called  Antonio  — 
I  pray  thee,  mark  me  — that  a  brother  should 
Be  so  perfidious  !  —  he  whom  next  thyself 
Of  all  the  world  I  loved  and  to  him  put 
The  manage  of  my  state  ;  as  at  that  time 
Through  all  the  signories  it  was  the  first 
And  Prospero  the  prime  duke,  being  so  reputed 
In  dignity,  and  for  the  liberal  arts 
Without  a  parallel ;  those  being  all  my  study, 
The  government  I  cast  u]Jon  my  brother 
And  to  my  state  grew  stranger,  being  transported 
And  rapt  in  secret  studies.     Thy  false  uncle  — 
Dost  thou  attend  me  .''... 

Mira.     Oh,  good  sir,  I  do. 

Pros.  I  pray  thee  mark  me. 

I,  thus  neglecting  worldly  ends,  all  dedicated 
To  closeness  and  the  bettering  of  my  mind 
With  that  which,  but  by  being  so  retired, 
O'er-prized  all  popular  rate,  in  my  false  brother 
Awaked  an  evil  nature;  and  my  trust, 
Like  a  good  parent,  did  beget  of  him 
A  falsehood  in  its  contrary  as  great 
As  my  trust  was  ;  which  had  indeed  no  limit, 
A  confidence  sans  bound.     He  being  thus  lorded, 
Not  only  with  what  my  revenue  yielded, 
But  what  my  power  might  else  exact,  like  one 
Who  having  into  truth,  by  telling  of  it, 
Made  such  a  sinner  of  his  memory 
To  credit  his  own  lie,  he  did  believe 

He  was  indeed  the  duke.  .  .  .     Hence  his  ambition  growing  — 
Dost  thou  hear  ? 

Mira.  Your  talc,  sir,  would  cure  deafness. 

Pros.     To  have  no  screen  between  this  part  he  played 
And  him  he  played  it  for,  he  needs  will  be 
Absolute  Milan.     Me,  poor  man,  my  library 
Was  dukedom  large  enough  :  of  temporal  royalties 
He  thinks  me  now  incapable  ;  confederates  — 
So  dry  he  was  for  sway  — with  the  king  of  Naples 
To  give  him  annual  tribute,  do  him  homage. 


152  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

Subject  his  coronet  to  his  crown,  and  bend 

The  dukedom  yet  unbowed  —  alas,  poor  Milan !  — 

To  most  ignoble  stooping. 

Mira.  Oh,  the  heavens  !  .  .  . 

Pros.  Now  the  condition. 

This  king  of  Naples,  being  an  enemy 
To  me  inveterate,  hearkens  my  brother's  suit. 
Which  was,  that  he,  in  lieu  o'  the  premises 
Of  homage  and  I  know  not  how  much  tribute, 
Should  presently  extirpate  me  and  mine 
Out  of  the  dukedom,  and  confer  fair  Milan, 
With  all  the  honors,  on  my  brother.     Whereon, 
A  treacherous  army  levied,  one  midnight 
Fated  to  the  purpose  did  Antonio  open 
The  gates  of  Milan,  and  i'  the  dead  of  darkness, 
The  ministers  for  the  purpose  hurried  thence 
Me  and  thy  crying  self. 

Mira.  Alack,  for  pity  ! 

I,  not  remembering  how  I  cried  out  then, 
Will  cry  it  o'er  again  :  it  is  a  hint 
That  wrings  mine  eyes  to  't.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Wherefore  did  they  not 
That  hour  destroy  us  ? 

Pros.  Well  demanded,  wench  : 

My  tale  provokes  that  question.     Dear,  they  durst  not, 
So  dear  the  love  my  people  bore  me,  nor  set 
A  mark  so  bloody  on  the  business,  but 
With  colors  fairer  painted  their  foul  ends. 
In  few,  they  hurried  us  aboard  a  bark. 
Bore  us  some  leagues  to  sea ;  where  they  prepared 
A  rotten  carcass  of  a  boat,  not  rigged, 
Nor  tackle,  sail,  nor  mast ;  the  very  rats 
Instinctively  have  quit  it :  there  they  hoist  us, 
To  cry  to  the  sea  that  roared  to  us,  to  sigh 
To  the  winds  whose  pity,  sighing  back  again. 
Did  us  but  loving  wrong. 

Mira.  Alack,  what  trouble 

Was  I  then  to  you  I 

Pros.  Oh  1  a  cherubin 

Thou  wast,  that  did  preserve  me!     Thou  didst  smile, 
Infused  with  a  fortitude  from  heaven. 
When  I  have  decked  the  sea  with  drops  full  salt. 
Under  my  burden  groaned  ;  which  raised  in  me 
An  undergoing  stomach  to  bear  up 
Against  what  should  ensue. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  1 5  3 


XXV. 

On  the   Dramatic   Poets   who    lived   in  Shakespeare's 
Time  :  Ben  Jonson  ;  Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

THERE  was  no  branch  of  English  Hterature  which 
grew  so  suddenly  and  blossomed  so  richly  as  dra- 
matic poetry.  The  names  that  appear  as  writers  for  the 
stage  between  the  dates  of  Shakespeare's  birth  and  death 
are  almost  legion.  I  do  not  think  it  would  be  worth  my 
pains  to  tell  you,  or  yours  to  remember,  the  names  e\-jn 
of  half  these  writers.  They  had  merits,  and  won  some 
success  in  their  day;  but  we  should  hardly  be  better  or 
wiser  for  knowing  more  than  a  small  share  of  these  works. 
I  will  only  mention  the  names  of  some  of  the  greatest 
writers  and  their  most  noted  dramas,  and  give  here  and 
there  an  illustration  of  the  quality  of  their  poetry. 

Ben  Jonson  is  generally  placed  next  Shakespeare  in  the 

history  of  the  drama.     "Rare  Ben  Tonson  "  he  is  , 

„    /   .      ,  .  .       ,     .     ,,^  .  .,  ,  T    1573-1637 

called  m  his  epitaph  in  Westminster  Abbey.     I 

do  not  think  he  should  rank  next  Shakespeare  as  a  poet, 

and  I  think  his  plays  neither  so  poetical  nor  so  powerful  as 

those  of  some  others  of  his  fellows.    They  were  very  well 

adapted  to  the  time  for  which  they  were  written,  although 

the  wit,  which  may  have  been  relished  in  that  day,  seems 

to  me   heavy  and  dull.      The  characters  in  his  comedies 

are  distinct  and  individual,  although  more  like  caricatures 

than  real  types.     He    is   learned    and   painstaking    in  his 

tragedy,  but  he  never  moves  me  by  any  touch  of  sympathy 

or  human  interest  in  his  characters  or  their  actions,  and  I 

do  not  believe   his  plays  are  now  interesting,  or  will  ever 

again  interest  any  one,  except  the  scholar  who  makes  the 

study  of  literature  his  special  pursuit. 

I  think,  therefore,  that  the  position  Jonson  gained  in  his 

own  time,  and  the  reputation  he  has  held  ever  since,  he 

gained  more  by  certain  mental  powers  he  possessed  than 

by  the  pre-eminence  of  his  poetry.     He  was  a  man  who, 


154  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

by  force  of  character  and  a  power  of  criticism,  exerted  a 
strong  influence  on  his  age.  We  shall  see  in  several  later 
periods  in  literature  certain  men  who,  impressing  them- 
selves and  their  opinions  vividly  upon  their  fellows,  get 
great  supremacy  over  them.  Ben  Jonson  was  something 
such  a  power  in  his  age  as  two  centuries  later  Samuel  John- 
son was  in  his.  It  takes  a  great  man  to  gain  such  a  posi- 
tion, and  therefore  I  do  not  underrate  rare  old  Ben  when 
I  say  that  he  owes  as  much  to  this  power  as  to  his  abihty 
as  a  poet.  Certainly  he  had  good  taste  and  good  judg- 
ment. He  did  much  towards  establishing  rules  for  criti- 
cism and  language.  Among  his  others  works,  he  is  the 
author  of  an  English  grammar,  which  is  now  a  curiosity 
among  text- books. 

Ben  had  known  hard  fortune  when  he  came  to  London 
and  began  to  write  for  the  stage.  He  was  first  an  actor, 
like  almost  all  the  other  play-writers,  but  does  not  seem  to 
have  been  brilliantly  successful  in  this  calling.  One  of  his 
fellows  says  that  "  he  left  bricklaying  and  took  to  play-act- 
ing," as  if  he  meant  to  hint  that  neither  trade  had  gained 
by  Jonson's  change.  There  is  an  old  story  to  the  effect 
that  Jonson  sent  his  first  comedy  to  the  theatre  in  which 
Shakespeare  was  already  a  prosperous  and  influential  mem- 
ber. The  comedy  had  been  rejected,  and  the  poor  author 
was  going  away  in  discouragement,  when  Shakespeare  asked 
to  look  at  it,  saw  its  merit,  and  through  his  means  it  was 
performed.  This  play  was  Every  Man  in  His  Humor, 
one  of  the  best  of  Jonson's  comedies.^ 

Jonson  and  Shakespeare  seem  to  have  been  good  friends, 
and  it  was  Jonson  who  wrote  that  fine  elegy  on  Shakespeare 
which  predicts  that  "  he  was  not  for  a  day,  but  for  all 
time."  Jonson  was  a  man  of  much  more  learning  than 
Shakespeare,  and  seems  to  have  been  rather  vain  of  his 
attainments.     He  says  that  "  Shakespeare  had  little  Latin 

1  This  story  has  been  contradicted  as  improbable;  but  it  is  to  be 
noted  that  any  story  whicli  sheds  a  gleam  of  liglit  on  the  dull  annals 
of  the  past  is  sure  to  be  contradicted,  whcllicr  it  be  probable  or  not, 
by  some  dry-as-dust  critic. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  1 5  5 

and  less  Greek,"  in  a  way  that  intimates  how  inferior 
Shakespeare  was  in  that  respect  to  himself.  And  there  is 
another  story  —  which  I  tell  with  proper  fear  that  it  may 
not  be  true  —  that  Shakespeare  was  once  asked  to  be 
sponsor  to  an  infant ;  and  when  some  one  asked  him  what 
he  would  give  his  godchild,  answered  :  "  I  will  give  him 
a  dozen  Latin  ^  spoons,  and  Ben  shall  translate  them." 
Whether  this  story  be  true  or  not,  there  was,  no  doubt, 
many  a  sharp  passage  of  wit  between  Jonson  and  Shake- 
speare. They  were  both  members  of  a  club,  said  to  have 
been  founded  by  Raleigh,  which  used  to  meet  at  the  Mer- 
maid Tavern,  in  London,  where  wit  sparkled  like  fireworks. 
If  the  walls  of  the  old  tavern  could  only  have  reported  what 
had  been  said  within  them,  what  a  feast  of  good  things  we 
might  have  had  !  But  this  was  before  the  age  of  news- 
papers, and  the  club  at  the  Mermaid  had  no  reporter  to 
take  down  their  witty  speeches. 

To  return  to  Jonson's  plays.  His  tragedies  of  Catiline 
and  Scjaniis  have  plots  drawn  from  classic  sources.  His 
best  comedies  are  Volpone,  The  Silent  Woman,  and  Evetj 
Man  in  His  Humor.  To  give  you  an  idea  of  his  plots, 
which  in  most  cases  seem  (unlike  Shakespeare's)  to  be 
original  in  construction,  let  me  tell  you  the  story  of  The 
Silent  Woman. 

The  hero,  a  young  gentleman,  has  an  eccentric  uncle 
who  cannot  bear  the  slightest  noise,  and  has  shut  himself 
up  from  everything  which  can  molest  him  or  break  his 
quiet.  He  quarrels  with  his  nephew,  who  expects  to  be 
his  heir,  and  resolves  to  disinherit  him  and  marry.  The 
Silent  Woman  is  accordingly  introduced  to  him,  —  a  woman 
warranted  to  speak  very  seldom,  and  then  hardly  above  a 
whisper.  He  is  charmed  with  her,  and  hurries  on  the  wed- 
ding ;  but  as  soon  as  the  knot  is  tied,  the  Silent  Woman 
turns  into  a  fluent  talker  and  a  termagant.  Hosts  of 
friends  come  in  to  visit  her,  a  band  of  instruments  enters, 
playing  loudly,  and  the  old  man  is  on  the  point  of  going 
mad,  when  his  scapegrace  nephew  comes  to  his  relief. 

*  "Latten"  was  a  cheap  metal,  of  which  spoons  were  made. 


156  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

He  offers  to  show  his  uncle  a  way  of  release  from  the 
marriage  if  he  will  sign  an  agreement  by  which  his  fortune 
after  death,  and  an  annuity  during  his  life,  are  secured  to 
the  nephew.  Tlie  poor  old  man  gladly  assents,  and  the  fact 
is  disclosed  that  the  Silent  Woman  is  a  boy  who  has  been 
trained  to  play  this  trick,  that  the  marriage  is  no  marriage, 
and  thus  the  play  ends.  No  doubt  this  was  very  amusing 
when  it  was  fust  performed,  but  it  has  lost  its  flavor  of  wit 
for  our  day,  and  there  are  i^w  lines  in  it  worth  preserving 
as  literature. 

Jonson  wrote  a  large  number  of  plays,  both  comedies 
and  tragedies.  He  also  wrote  a  number  of  masques,  for 
representation  in  the  court,  when  he  was  made  poet-lau- 
reate to  James  I. ;  and  in  these  is  some  of  his  best  poetry. 
These  masques  were  generally  written  for  some  special 
occasion  of  festivity,  —  royal  birthdays  or  marriages,  or  court 
celebrations.  They  were  also  sometimes  performed  in  the 
open  air  in  the  course  of  the  journey  of  a  sovereign,  or  at 
his  reception  at  some  noble  house.  You  will  get  a  very 
good  idea  of  a  masque  if  you  read,  in  Scott's  novel  of 
Kenilworth,  the  account  of  Elizabeth's  visit  to  the  Earl  of 
Leicester  and  of  the  masque  performed  there. 

Although  Jonson,  in  my  opinion,  does  not  show  a  very 
fine  imagination  in  his  most  famous  dramas,  he  is  a  very 
musical  lyric  poet.  This  is  shown  in  the  songs  which  we 
find  in  his  plays  and  in  the  masques,  as  well  as  among 
his  short  poems.  I  presume  you  have  heard  this  song  of 
his,  beginning,  — 

"  Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 
And  I  will  pledge  with  mine," 

which  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  early  songs.    Here 
is  another  song  from  one  of  his  masques  : — 

To    ClIARIS. 

Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  light 

All  that  Love's  world  conipriscth. 
Do  but  look  on  her  hair,  it  is  bright 

As  Love's  star  when  it  riseth. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  1 57 

Do  but  mark  her  forehead,  smoother 
Than  words  that  sooth  her  ; 
And  from  her  arched  brows  such  a  grace 
Sheds  itself  through  the  face. 

Have  you  seen  but  a  briglit  lily  grow 

Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it  ? 
Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  of  the  snow 

Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it  ? 
Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  the  beaver. 
Or  swan's  down  ever  ? 
Or  have  smelt  of  the  bud  of  the  brier. 
Or  the  nard  in  the  fire  ? 
Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  ? 
Oh,  so  white  !  Oh,  so  soft!  Oh,  so  sweet  is  she. 

It  is  singular  that  a  man  who  could  write  so  graceful  a 
lyric  should  not  have  put  more  such  poetry  into  his  dra- 
matic writings. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  facts  of  Jonson's  life  to  us 
is  a  visit  he  made  to  the  Scottish  poet  Drummond,  in  the 
early  part  of  the  seventeenth  century.  In  this  visit  he 
told  many  anecdotes,  and  seems  to  have  expressed  his 
opinions  freely  on  his  contemporaries,  their  characters  and 
their  writings.  Drummond,  like  a  thrifty  Scotchman  who 
let  nothing  go  to  waste,  kept  notes  of  the  visit,  and  they 
are  printed,  so  that  we  all  can  read  this  precious  gossip. 
At  the  end  of  the  notes  Drummond  gives  his  opinion  of 
Jonson  in  these  words,  with  which  we  will  take  leave  of 
him  :  — 

"  Ben  Jonson  was  a  great  lover  and  praiser  of  himself,  a 
contemner  and  scorner  of  others,  given  rather  to  lose  a  friend 
than  a  jest ;  jealous  of  every  word  and  action  of  those  about 
him,  especially  when  in  drink,  which  is  one  of  the  elements  in 
which  he  lived;  a  dissembler  of  the  parts  that  reign  in  him  ;  a 
bragger  of  some  good  that  he  wanted  ;  thinketh  nothing  well 
done  but  what  he  or  some  of  his  friends  have  done.  He  is 
passionately  kind  and  angry,  careless  cither  to  gain  or  keep ; 
vindictive,  but  he  be  well  answered  at  himself ;  interprets  best 
sayings  and  deeds  of  others  often  at  the  worst.  He  was  for  any 
religion,  being  versed  in  both  ;  oppressed  with  fancy  that  hath 
o'ermastered  his  reason  (a  general  disease  in  many  poets)  ;  his 


158  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

inventions  are  smooth  and  easy,  but,  above  all,  he  excelleth  in  a 
translation." 

I  have  told  you  previously  how  common  it  was  for  two 
or  more  authors  to  unite  together  in  writing  works  for  the 
theatre.  There  is  hardly  a  play-writer  of  the  age  who  is 
not  known  to  have  thus  collaborated ;  but  there  are  no  two 
Iiiafi-IGIS-IG  ^^i^''^^  so  closely  linked  in  authorship  as  those 
of  FR.A.NCIS  Beauimont  and  John   Fletcher. 

1576-1625  i^hey  are  always  spoken  of  as  a  pair  of  poets, 
and  their  works  have  always  been  printed  under  their  joint 
names. 

The  fact  that  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  were  brothers  in 
heart,  as  well  as  brother  workers,  is  one  fact  that  makes 
them  interesting  to  us,  and  has  helped,  no  doubt,  to  bind 
them  so  closely  together  in  fame.  They  were  the  dearest 
of  friends,  lived  in  one  house,  shared  one  apartment,  and, 
it  is  said,  wore  each  other's  clothes.  Beaumont,  who  was 
ten  years  younger  than  Fletcher,  died  almost  ten  years 
before  his  friend.  It  is  thought  that  an  overtasked  brain 
was  the  cause  of  his  death.  Fletcher  lived  till  1625,  the 
year  the  plague  visited  London.  He  was  intending  to 
leave  the  city,  and  only  waited  for  a  suit  of  clothes  to  be 
sent  home  by  his  tailor,  when  the  plague  seized  him  and  he 
died. 

There  are  fifty-two  plays  in  the  volumes  printed  under 
the  joint  names  of  Ijcaumont  and  Fletcher  ;  but  as  Fletcher 
outlived  Beaumont  ten  years,  many  of  these  plays  were 
written  after  Beaumont's  death.  Some  were  entirely  Flet- 
cher's work,  and  others  were  written  with  other  play-writers 
of  the  time,  Massinger,  Middleton,  Rowley,  and  others. 
His  most  notable  co-worker  was  Shakespeare,  with  whom 
he  wrote  The  Two  Noble  Kijismen,  and  whom  he  aided 
also,  it  is  said,  in  Henry  VIII}  A  recent  scholar  gives  the 
authorship  of  the  plays  thus  :  — 

1  There  is  a  difference  of  opinion  among  critics  as  to  whether 
Fletcher  had  any  share  in  Henry  VIII.  I  think,  however,  that  any 
one  who  studies  Shakespeare  and  Fletcher's  style,  and  has  a  fine  ear 
for  metres,  will  decide  that  Fletcher  had  a  share  in  the  play. 


ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  159 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  jointly 10 

Beaumont,  sole  author     .          2 

Fletcher         "         "          20 

Fletcher  and  Shakespeare 2 

Fletcher  and  Massinger       10 

Fletcher,  with  other  authors 8 

52 

It  is  not  easy  to  decide  just  iiow  the  poets  shared  their 
work  in  these  Uterary  partnerships,  whether  a  plot  was  de- 
cided upon,  and  each  took  certain  scenes  as  his  share,  or  if 
each  took  certain  characters  in  a  scene,  and  wrote  their 
speeches.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  certainly  wrote  together 
with  great  harmony,  and  their  styles  very  closely  blended. 
Some  critic  says  that  "  Beaumont  excelled  in  that  judgment 
requisite  for  forming  plots,  and  Fletcher  in  the  fancy  and 
vivacity  which  characterize  the  poet." 

There  is  a  story  told  of  their  being  once  at  a  tavern,  con- 
sulting together  over  a  bottle  of  wine,  when  Fletcher  was 
heard  to  whisper  mysteriously,  "  I  will  kill  the  king,"  The 
horrified  waiter  would  have  had  them  arrested  for  con- 
spiracy if  it  had  not  been  clearly  proved  that  the  two  poets 
were  only  concocting  the  plot  of  a  new  play. 

You  can  easily  imagine  that  the  fifty-two  plays  which  pass 
under  the  title  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  works  must  be 
very  unequal  in  merit,  since  so  many  different  poets  had  a 
share  in  them.  The  best  among  them  certainly  are  those 
written  jointly  by  these  two  authors. 

The  comedies  v/ritten  by  Fletcher  alone  are  very  bril- 
liant, the  dialogue  is  natural  and  sprightly,  —  a  model  for 
later  comedy  style ;  but  among  the  serious  plays,  those  in 
which  both  these  poets  took  part  have  the  highest  flights 
of  poetry  and  strongest  dramatic  interest.  Some  of  the 
best  are  Phi/aster,  Valcntinian,  The  Maid's  Tragedy,  and 
Thierry  and  Theodoi'et.  Of  all  their  plays  I  like  best  Phi- 
luster,  or  Love  Lies  Bleeding;  and  from  this  I  have  made 
some  extracts  for  you  to   read. 

The  plot  is  of  a  Prince  Philaster,  the  rightful  heir  to  the 
crown  of  Sicily,  which  crown  has  been  usurped  by  the 
reigning  king,  who  desires  to  leave  the  succession  to  his 


l6o  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

daughter  Arethusa.  Philaster  lives  at  liberty  in  Sicily  so 
much  beloved  by  the  people  that  the  king  dares  not  im- 
prison or  make  away  with  him,  although  he  is  plotting  by 
the  marriage  of  Arethusa  with  a  Spanish  prince  to  bring  in 
foreign  aid  to  strengthen  his  power.  But  Arethusa  loves 
Philaster  and  is  beloved  by  him,  so  that  in  the  end  all 
difficulties  are  solved  by  their  marriage.  Philaster  is  also 
loved  by  Euphrasia,  daughter  of  one  of  the  lords  of  Sicily, 
who  has  taken  the  disguise  of  a  page  (Bellario)  to  follow 
Philaster,  who  guesses  neither  the  secret  of  her  love  nor 
her  birth. 

Philaster  thus  describes  this  page,  Bellario,  to  Arethusa : 

"  I  have  a  boy 
Sent  by  the  gods,  I  hope,  to  this  intent, 
Not  yet  seen  in  the  court.     Hunting  the  buck, 
I  found  him  sitting  by  a  fountain's  side, 
Of  which  he  borrowed  some  to  quench  his  thirst, 
And  paid  the  nymph  again  as  much  in  tears. 
A  garland  lay  him  by,  made  by  himself 
Of  many  several  flowers  bred  in  the  vale. 
Stuck  in  that  mystic  order  that  the  rareness 
Delighted  me.     But  ever  when  he  turned 
His  tender  eyes  upon  'em,  he  would  weep 
As  if  he  meant  to  make  'cm  grow  again. 
Seeing  such  pretty  helpless  innocence 
Dwell  in  his  face,  I  asked  him  all  his  story. 
He  told  me  that  his  parents  gentle  died. 
Leaving  him  to  the  mercy  of  the  fields. 
Which  gave  him  roots,  and  of  the  crystal  springs, 
Which  did  not  stop  their  courses,  and  the  sun. 
Which  still,  he  thanked  him,  yielded  him  his  light. 
Then  took  he  up  his  garland,  and  did  show 
What  every  flower,  as  country  people  hold. 
Did  signify  ;  and  how  all,  ordered  thus, 
Expressed  his  grief.     And,  to  my  thoughts,  did  read 
The  prettiest  lecture  of  his  country  art 
That  could  be  wished;  so  that  methought  I  could 
Have  studied  it.     I  gladly  entertained  him, 
Who  was  glad  to  follow,  and  have  got 
The  trustiest,  loving'st,  and  the  gentlest  boy 
That  ever  master  kept.     Him  will  I  send 
To  wait  on  you,  and  bear  our  hidden  love." 

The  following  speech  is  made  by  Euphrasia  when  her  dis- 
guise has  been  discovered  by  Philaster  and  the  court ;  and 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  i6l 

the  former  demands  of  her  why  she  has  thus  concealed  her 
sex.     She  answers,  — 

"  My  father  oft  would  speak 
Your  worth  and  virtues ;  and  as  I  did  grow 
More  and  more  apprehensive,  I  did  thirst 
To  see  the  man  so  praised.     But  yet  all  this 
Was  but  a  maiden  longing,  to  be  lost 
As  soon  as  found ;  till  sitting  in  my  window, 
Printing  my  thoughts  in  lawn,  I  saw  a  god, 
I  thought  (  but  it  was  you  ),  enter  our  gates. 
My  blood  flew  out,  and  back  again  as  fast 
As  I  had  puffed  it  forth  and  sucked  it  in 
Like  breath.     Then  was  I  called  away  in  haste 
To  entertain  you.     Never  was  a  man, 
Heaved  from  a  sheepcote  to  a  sceptre,  raised 
So  high  in  thoughts  as  I.     You  left  a  kiss 
Upon  those  lips  then  which  I  mean  to  keep 
From  you  forever.     I  did  hear  you  talk 
Far  above  singing !     After  you  were  gone, 
I  grew  acquainted  with  my  heart,  and  searched 
What  stirred  it  so.     Alas  !  I  found  it  love  ; 
Yet  could  I  but  have  lived 
In  presence  of  you,  I  had  had  my  end. 
For  this  I  did  delude  my  noble  father 
With  a  feigned  pilgrimage,  and  dressed  myself 
In  habit  of  a  boy  ;  and  for  I  knew 
My  birth  no  match  for  you,  I  was  past  hope 
Of  having  you  ;  and  understanding  well 
That  when  I  made  discovery  of  my  sex 
I  could  not  stay  with  you,  I  made  a  vow, 
By  all  the  most  religious  things  a  maid 
Could  call  together,  never  to  be  known. 
While  there  was  hope  to  hide  me  from  men's  eyes. 
For  other  than  I  seemed,  that  I  might  ever 
Abide  with  you.     Then  sat  I  by  the  fount 
Where  first  you  took  me  up." 

Like  all  the  rest  of  these  poets,  Fletcher  wrote  very 
pretty  songs,  which  occur  in  a  number  of  his  plays.  Here 
is  one,  which  is  in  the  same  strain  as  Milton's  Pefiseroso, 
in  which  he  praises  the  charm  of  Melancholy :  — 

"  Hence  all  you  vain  delights, 
As  short  as  are  the  nights 

Wherein  you  spend  your  folly  ! 
II 


1 62  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

There  's  nought  in  this  life  sweet, 
If  men  were  wise  to  see  't, 

15ut  only  melanclioly, 

Oh,  sweetest  melancholy. 

"  Welcome,  folded  arms  and  fixed  eyes, 
A  sigh  that  piercing  mortifies, 
A  look  that 's  fastened  to  the  ground, 
A  tongue  chained  up  without  a  sound! 
Fountain-heads  and  pathless  groves. 
Places  that  pale  passion  loves  I 
Moonlight  walks,  where  all  the  fowls 
Are  warmly  housed,  save  bats  and  owls  ! 
A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan  !  — 
These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon  ; 
Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a  still  gloomy  valley,— 
Nothing  's  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  melancholy." 


XXVI. 

On   George   Chapman,   John  \Vebster,    John    Marston, 

AND    OTHER    DrAM.^TISTS. 


A 


GROUP  of  lesser  names  follows  on  Jonson  and  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher.  One  of  the  oldest  among 
them  is  George  Chapman,  the  first  translator  of 
Homer  into  English  verse.  This  is  his  really 
great  title  to  fame,  although  he  wrote  many  plays,  and  was 
much  esteemed  as  an  original  poet.  He  was  born  seven 
years  before  Shakespeare,  and  lived  to  be  almost  eighty.  A 
writer  who  knew  him  in  his  latest  days  says  :  "  He  was  much 
resorted  to  latterly  by  young  persons  of  parts,  as  a  sort  of 
poetical  chronicle,  but  was  very  choice  whom  he  admitted 
to  him,  and  preserved  in  his  own  person  the  dignity  of 
poetry,  which  he  compared  to  a  flower  of  the  sun,  that 
disdains  to  open  its  petals  to  the  light  of  a  smoky  candle." 
This  is  to  my  mind  a  delightful  picture  of  one  of  the  patri- 
archs of  the  noble  age  of  Elizabethan  literature  holding 
court  to  receive  the  generation  who  were  so  unfortunate 
as  to  be  born  later. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  163 

John  Marston  and  John  Webster  were  both  poets  of  a 
higher  order  than  Chapman.  Webster  wrote 
two  plays,  Vitforia  Coro}nbo?ia  dind  The  Duch-  ^582--1652 
ess  of  Malfi,  which  I  think  more  powerful  and  more  dra- 
matically effective  in  the  elements  of  horror  and  pathos 
they  possess,  than  anything  produced  by  these  dramatic 
poets,  always  excepting  Shakespeare.  Webster  also  wrote 
a  tragedy  on  the  moving  story  of  the  Roman  maiden  Vir- 
ginia ;  and  I  will  quote  you,  as  an  example  of  his  pathetic 
style,  the  speech  of  Virginius  in  which  he  bids  farewell  to 
his  daughter  before  he  sacrifices  her  :  — 

Virginius  [embracing  Virginia]. 

Farewell,  my  sweet  Virginia;  never,  never 

Shall  I  taste  fruit  of  the  most  blessed  hope 

I  had  in  thee.     Let  me  forget  the  thought 

Of  thy  most  pretty  infancy,  when  first 

Returning  from  the  wars,  I  took  delight 

To  rock  thee  in  my  target ;  when  my  girl 

Would  kiss  her  father  in  his  burganet 

Of  glittering  steel,  hung  'bout  his  armed  neck, 

And,  viewing  the  bright  metal,  smile  to  see 

Another  fair  Virginia  smile  on  thee ;  .  .  . 

And  when  my  wounds  have  smarted,  I  have  sung 

With  an  unskilful,  yet  a  willing  voice, 

To  bring  my  girl  asleep. 

Marston  is  celebrated  for  his  grim  and  satirical  humor, 
which  he  shows  forcibly  in  T/ie  Makotitent,  the 
most  noted,  or  best  known,  of  all  his  dramas; 
but  the  same  spirit  appears  in  all  he  wrote.  Like  Shake- 
speare's Fool,  he  "  rails  on  Lady  Fortune  in  good  set  terms." 
One  of  the  characters  in  his  play  of  What  You  Will  says 
"Fortune  is  blind;  "  on  which  the  hero  cries  fiercely, — 

"You  lie,  you  lie! 
None  but  a  madman  would  deem  Fortune  blind. 
How  can  she  see  to  wound  desert  so  nice. 
Just  in  the  speeding  place  ?  to  girt  lewd  brows 
With  honor's  wreath?     Ha!  Fortune  blind  .'  Away  I 
How  can  she,  blinded,  then  so  rightly  see 
To  starve  rich  worth  and  glut  iniquity?" 


1 64  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

And  another  speech  from  the  same  character :  — 

"  Love  !  hang  love '. 
It  is  the  abject  outcast  of  the  world. 
Hate  all  things  ;  hate  the  world,  —  thyself,  all  men; 
Hate  knowledge  ;  strive  not  to  be  overwise, — 
It  drew  destruction  into  Paradise; 
Hate  honor,  virtue,  —  they  are  baits 
That  entice  men's  hopes  to  sadder  fates ; 
Hate  beauty,  —  every  ballad-monger 
Can  cry  his  idle,  foppish  humor; 
Hate  riches, —  wealth  's  a  flattering  Jack, 
Adores  to  the  face,  mews  'hind  thy  back ; 
He  that  is  poor  is  firmly  sped. 
He  never  shall  be  flattered  ; 
Love  only  hate  ;  affect  no  higher 
Than  praise  of  heaven,  wine,  a  fire, 
Luck  of  thy  days  in  silent  breath, — 
When  that's  snuffed  out,  come  Seignor  Death!" 

Whether  this  was  Marston's  native  humor,  and  the  one  in 
which  he  Uved,  I  do  not  know,  but  it  is  certainly  not  a  very 
agreeable  one  to  contemplate. 

In   contrast    to    him    is    the    sunny-tempered   Thomas 

Dekker,  who  was  a  prolific  writer  of  dramas  and 
1575-1641      f  \      .        TT       1         u  .  u  A 

of  prose  tracts.  His  plays  have  not  much  dra- 
matic interest,  although  some  of  the  characters  are  wonder- 
fully life-like  and  vivid,  and  there  is  a  serene  and  noble 
philosophy  in  his  lines  that  puts  to  shame  the  cynicism 
that  inspires  so  much  of  Marston's  pen.  Here  is  a 
specimen  :  — 

"  Why  should  we  grieve  at  want  ?     Say  the  world  made  thee 
Her  minion,  that  thy  head  lay  in  her  lap. 
And  that  she  danced  thee  upon  her  wanton  knee  ? 
She  could  but  give  thee  a  whole  world,  —  that 's  all, 
And  that  all 's  nothing  ;  the  world's  greatest  part 
Cannot  fill  up  one  corner  of  thy  heart. 

Were  twenty  kingdoms  thine,  thou'dst  live  in  care, 
Thou  could'st  not  sleep  the  better,  nor  live  longer, 
Nor  merrier  be,  nor  healthfuller,  nor  stronger. 
If,  then,  thou  wantest,  make  that  want  thy  pleasure ; 
No  man  wants  all  things,  nor  has  all  in  measure," 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  1 65 

In  the  same  spirit  as  this  is  a  beautiful  song,  which  I 
find  in  an  old  play  of  which  Dekker  was  joint  author  with 
two  other  of  the  dramatists ;  and  the  song  was  without 
doubt  written  by  Dekker  :  — 

"  Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers  ? 

Oh,  sweet  content  I 
Art  thou  rich,  yet  is  thy  mind  perplexed  ? 

Oh,  punishment ! 
Dost  thou  laugh  to  see  how  fools  are  vexed, 
To  add  to  golden  numbers  golden  numbers  ? 

Oh,  sweet  content ! 

"  Oh,  sweet,  oh,  sweet  content! 
Work  apace,  apace,  apace  ; 
Honest  Labor  wears  a  bonny  face ! 
"  Canst  drink  the  waters  of  the  crisped  spring  ? 

Oh,  sweet  content ! 
Swim'st  thou  in  wealth,  yet  sink'st  in  thine  own  tears  ? 

Oh,  punishment ! 
Then  he  that  patiently  want's  burden  bears, 
No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king. 

Oh,  sweet,  oh,  sweet  content  1 " 

In  one  of  Dekker' s  plays  there  is  an  old  man,  Orlando 
Friscobaldo,  who  has  always  been  a  great  favorite  of  mine. 
I  think  there  is  no  character  in  any  of  these  old  plays  whose 
wise  and  witty  sayings  come  so  near  my  heart  as  these  of 
old  Orlando.  Here  is  a  scene  in  which  he  meets  Hippolito, 
the  hero  of  the  play  :  — 

Orlando  My  noble  lord  !  the  Lord  Hippolito  I  the  duke's  son ! 
his  brave  daughter's  brave  husband  !  How  does  your  honored  lord- 
ship ?  Does  your  nobility  remember  so  poor  a  gentleman  as  Signor 
Orlando  Friscobaldo, —  old  mad  Orlando  ? 

Hip.  Oh,  sir,  our  friends,  they  ought  to  be  unto  us  as  our  jewels, — 
as  dearly  valued,  being  locked  up  and  unseen,  as  when  we  wear  them 
in  our  hands.  I  see,  Friscobaldo,  age  hath  not  command  of  your 
blood;  for  all  Time's  sickle  has  gone  over  you,  you  are  Orlando  still. 

Orl.  Why,  my  lord,  are  not  the  fields  mown  and  cut  down,  and 
stripped  bare,  and  yet  wear  they  not  pied  coats  again  ?  Though  my 
head  be  like  a  leek,  white,  may  not  my  heart  be  like  the  blade,  green  ? 

Hip.  Scarce  can  I  read  the  stories  in  your  brow  which  age  has 
writ  there  ;  you  look  youthful  still. 

Orl,  I  eat  snakes,  my  lord ;  I  eat  snakes  My  heart  shall  never 
have  a  wrinkle  in  it  so  long  as  I  can  cry  "  Hem  !  "  with  a  clear  voice. 

Hip.     You  are  the  happier  man,  sir  ! 


1 66  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Orl.  Happy  man  ?  I  '11  give  you,  my  lord,  the  true  picture  of  a 
happy  man  ;  I  was  turning  leaves  over  this  morning,  and  found  it.  An 
excellent  Italian  painter  drew  it;  if  I  have  it  in  the  right  colors,  1 '11 
bestow  it  on  your  lordship. 

Hip.     I  stay  for  it. 

Orl.     He  for  whom  poor  men's  curses  dig  no  grave ; 
He  that  is  neither  lord's  nor  lawyer's  slave; 
He  that  makes  this  his  sea,  and  that  his  shore; 
He  that  in  's  coffin  's  richer  than  before  ; 
He  that  counts  youth  his  sword,  and  age  his  staff; 
He  whose  right  hand  carves  his  own  epitaph; 
He  that  upon  his  death-bed  is  a  swan, 
And  dead,  no  crow,  —  he  is  a  happy  man. 

Hip.     It's  very  well ;  I  thank  you  for  this  picture. 

Orl.  After  this  picture,  my  lord,  do  I  strive  to  have  my  face 
drawn,  for  I  am  not  covetous,  am  not  in  debt,  sit  neither  at  the  duke's 
side,  nor  lie  at  his  feet ....  I  sowed  leaves  in  my  youth,  and  I  reap 
now  books  in  my  age.  I  fill  this  hand,  and  empty  this  ;  and  when  the 
bell  shall  toll  for  me,  if  I  prove  a  swan  and  go  singing  to  my  nest,  why 
so!  .  .  .  May  not  old  Friscobaldo  be  merry  now,  ha? 

Hip.     You  may  ;  would  I  were  partner  in  your  mirth  ! 

Orl.  I  have  a  little, — have  all  things;  I  have  nothing.  I  have 
no  wife,  I  have  no  child,  have  no  chick;  and  why  should  I  not  be 
in  my  jocundare  ? 

Hip.     Is  your  wife,  then,  departed  .' 

Orl.  She  's  an  old  dweller  in  those  high  countries  (pointing  to 
heaven),  yet  not  from  me;  here,  she's  here  [touching  his  heart):  a 
good  couple  are  seldom  parted. 

Hip.     You  had  a  daughter  too,  sir,  had  you  not  1 

Orl.  Oh,  my  lord,  this  old  tree  had  one  branch,  and  but  one  branch 
growing  out  of  it.  It  was  young,  it  was  fair,  it  was  straight ;  I  pruned 
it  daily,  drest  it  carefully,  kept  it  from  the  wind,  helped  it  to  the  sun ; 
yet,  for  all  my  skill  in  planting,  it  grew  crooked ;  I  hewed  it  down  , 
what  's  become  of  it  I  neither  know  nor  care. 

Hip.  Then  I  can  tell  you  what 's  become  of  it.  The  branch  is 
withered. 

Orl.     So  't  was  long  ago. 

Hip.     Her  name,  I  think,  was  Bellafront.     She  's  dead. 

Orl.     Ha  !  dead  ? 

Hip.  Yes  ;  what  was  left  of  her  not  worth  the  keeping,  even  in  my 
sight,  was  thrown  into  a  grave. 

Orl.  Dead  !  My  last  and  best  peace  go  with  her  !  I  see  Death  's  a 
good  trencherman ;  he  can  eat  coarse  meat  as  well  as  the  dantiest. 
Is  she  dead  > 

Hip.     She  's  turned  to  earth. 

Orl.  Would  she  were  turned  to  heaven!  Umph  1  is  she  dead  ?  I 
am  glad  the  world  has  lost  one  of  his  idols.  In  her  grave  sleep  all 
my  shame  and  her  own;  and  all  my  sorrows  and  all  her  sins. 


OiY  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE. 


167 


Hip.     I  'm  glad  you  are  wax,  not  marble  ;  you  are  made 
Of  man's  best  temper,  —  there  are  now  good  hopes 
That  all  these  heaps  of  ice  about  your  heart, 
By  which  a  father's  love  was  frozen  up. 
Are  thaw'd  in  these  sweet  showers  fetched  from  your  eyes. 
We  are  ne'er  like  angels  till  our  passions  die. 
She  is  not  dead,  but  lives  under  worse  fate ; 
I  think  she  's  poor,  and  more  to  clip  her  wings. 
Her  husband  at  this  hour  lies  in  jail 
For  killing  of  a  man.    To  save  his  blood 
Join  all  your  force  with  mine  ;  mine  shall  be  shown ; 
The  getting  of  his  life  preserves  your  own. 
Orl.     In  my  daughter,  you  will  say.      Does  she  live,  then  ?     I  am 
sorry  I  wasted  tears  upon  a  wanton.     But  the  best  is  I  have  a  hand- 
kerchief to  drink  them  up;  soap  can  wash  them  all  out  again.    Is 
she  poor  .' 
Hip.     Trust  me,  I  think  she  is.  .  .  .     When  did  you  see  her  .' 
Orl.    Not  seventeen  summers. 
Hip.     Is  your  hate  so  old  .'' 

Orl.     Older.     It  has  a  white  head,  and  shall  never  die  till  she  be 
buried;  her  wrongs  shall  be  my  bedfellow.  .  .  . 
Hip.     Nay,  but  Friscobaldo  — 
Orl.     I  detest  her ;  I  defy  both ;  she  's  not  mine,  she  's  — 

Hip.     Fare  you  well,  for  I  '11  trouble  you  no  more.   \Exit  Hippolito. 

Orl.  {Looking  after  liim]  And  fare  you  well,  sir;  go  thy  ways  ; 
we  have  few  lords  of  thy  maldng.  'Las,  my  girl,  art  thou  poor  .? 
Poverty  dwells  next  door  to  despair,  —  there  's  but  a  wall  between 
them.  Despair  is  one  of  hell's  catchpoles ;  and  lest  that  devil  arrest 
her,  I  '11  to  her.  Yet  she  shall  not  know  me  :  she  shall  drink  of  my 
wealth  as  beggars  do  of  running  water,  freely,  yet  never  know  from 
what  fountain's  head  it  flows.  Shall  a  silly  bird  pick  her  own  breast 
to  nourish  her  young  ones,  and  can  a  father  see  his  child  starve .' 
That  were  hard.     The  pelican  does  it,  and  shall  not  I } 

I  think  I  have  quoted  enough  to  show  you  that  Dekker's 
"heart  had  no  wrinkles  in  it,"  if  his  poetry  was  prompted 
by  his  disposition. 

Massinger  and  Ford  are  near  the  end  of  the  list  of  the 
great  poets  of  this  era.  They  each  wrote  a  num-  i584_i64o 
ber  of  dramas,  and  one  of  Massinger's,  A  New 
Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts,  still  is  an  acting  play,  1586-1636 
—  partly  because  the  principal  character,  Sir  Giles  Overreach, 
has  so  much  power  that  the  part  is  a  favorite  with  actors! 
But  I  think  we  should  be  little  interested  to  read  the  plays 


1 68  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

of  these  authors,  or  those  of  James  Shirley,  who  ranks 
among  the  last  of  this  Hne  of  dramatic  writers. 
He  was  born  in  EUzabeth's  reign,  and  lived  till 
that  of  Charles  II.  He  wrote  many  plays,  in  one  of  which 
occurs  a  song  which  was  a  favorite  with  the  Merry  Monarch  ; 
and  with  this  song,  by  which  we  may  remember  Shirley, 
I  will  close  this  long  Talk  on  our  dramatists  :  — 

"The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things  ; 
There  is  no  armor  against  fate  ; 
Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings  ; 
Sceptre  and  crown 
Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

"  Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill ; 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield,  — 
They  tame  but  one  another  still ; 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate, 
And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

"  The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow ; 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds; 
Upon  death's  purple  altar  now 

See  where  the  victor-victim  bleeds. 
Your  hearts  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb  : 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet  and  blossom  in  the  dust." 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  169 


XXVII. 

On  the  Singers  of  the  Golden  Age  of  Poetry,  —  Donne, 
WoTTON,  Wither,  Herbert,  and  Herrick. 

IN  speaking  of  the  dramatic  poets,  we  have  noted  how 
many  of  the  play-writers  wrote  beautiful  little  lyrics, 
which  we  find  occurring  in  their  plays,  as  the  Spring  song 
of  Thomas  Nash  (page  135),  or  the  Labor  song  of  Thomas 
Dekker,  which  we  have  read  (page  165).  If  you  have  ever 
opened  a  volume  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  I  think  you  could 
not  fail  to  be  caught  by  the  beauty  of  the  lyrics  scattered 
through  the  book,  —  as  Ariel's  melodious  lay  in  the  Tempest: 

"  Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 
And  then  take  hands, 
Court'sied  when  you  have,  and  kiss'd 
The  wild  waves  whist." 

Or  the  spirited  serenade  from  Cytiibeline,  — 

"  Hark,  hark !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings. 
And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies  ; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes  : 
With  everything  that  pretty  bin, 
My  lady  sweet,  arise; 
Arise,  arise  !  " 

Ben  Jonson,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Webster,  Marston, 
and  dramatists  of  lesser  rank  all  studded  their  plays  with 
songs,  some  of  them  so  musical  and  so  fanciful  that  they 
are  often  like  jewels  shining  out  in  a  heap  of  rubbish ;  for 
many  of  these  plays  are  only  the  rubbish  of  literature,  re- 
deemed by  an  occasional  fine  line,  or  by  one  of  these 
beautiful  lyrics. 

There  are  also  many  poets  not  dramatic,  but  purely 
lyric,  who  sang  like  larks  in  this  sky.  I  could  count  you  a 
score  or  two  through  the  period  covered  by  the  reigns  of 


I/O  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Elizabeth,  James,  and  Charles  I.     The  mention  of  half  a 

score  must  content  us,  and  I  propose  to  group  together  in 

this  Talk  the  principal  lyric  poets  from  the  time  of  Spenser 

to  that  of  Milton. 

John  Donne  comes  first  on  my  list.     Early  in  lire  he  was 

secretary  to  an  earl,  and  while  in  this  position  he 
1573-1631    -  ,,  .     ,  •  ,      1  1,        •  1  11 

fell  m  love  with  the  earl  s  niece  and  married  her 

clandestinely,  which  so  offended  the  lady's  family,  and 
especially  her  father,  that  he  had  the  poet  turned  out  from 
office  and  actually  imprisoned  him  in  the  Tower.  He  was 
released,  however,  and  won  enough  renown  later  to  make 
his  stupid  old  father-in-law  ashamed  of  himself;  for  Donne 
became  one  of  the  most  distinguished  preachers  of  his 
time,  and  was  made  finally  the  Dean  of  St.  Paul's  Cathe- 
dral. His  marriage  turned  out  very  happily.  His  wife 
seems  to  have  been  romantically  devoted  to  him,  and  once 
when  he  was  to  go  on  a  journey,  she  formed  the  design  of 
going  with  him  in  the  disguise  of  his  page,  but  was  dis- 
covered before  she  could  carry  out  her  plan.  She  died 
before  Donne  reached  the  height  of  his  success,  and  he 
grieved  for  her  all  his  life  after. 

Donne  has  been  put  at  the  head  of  the  "  metaphysical 
poets,"  who  gained  that  title  from  Dr.  Johnson,  because,  as 
he  says,  they  "  were  men  of  learning,  and  to  show  their 
learning  was  their  sole  endeavor;  "  so  that,  instead  of  writ- 
ing poetry,  they  wrote  only  verses,  and  often  "  such  verses 
as  stood  the  test  of  the  finger  better  than  the  ear."  John- 
son's criticism  is  only  occasionally  true  of  the  best  of  these 
poets,  though  these  best  sometimes  deserve  the  worst  that 
he  says  of  them. 

For  instance,  in  one  poem  Donne  compares  his  heart  to 
a  mirror  shattered  into  pieces  by  love,  and  goes  on  to 
prove  that  as  the  pieces  of  broken  glass  show  a  hundred 
lesser  faces,  •'*  so  his  broken  heart  could  feel  lesser  passions, 
but  never  one  great  love  like  that  his  lady  inspired."  In 
another  poem,  entitled  an  Ode  to  a  Flea  which  has  bitten 
both  himself  and  his  beloved,  he  talks  about  their  blood 
being  wedded  in  the  black  temple  of  the  "  insect's  body  "  ! 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  1 7 1 

If  this  is  metaphysical  poetry,  the  less  we  have  of  it  the 
better.  But  Donne  was  not  always  so  absurd.  Here  is  some- 
thing in  a  better  vein,  —  a  quaint  good-by  song  on  going 
away  for  a  short  absence.  We  will  fancy  he  wrote  it  to  con° 
sole  Mrs.  Donne  when  he  went  on  the  journey  from  which 
she  was  prevented  from  accompanying  him  as  a  page  : 

"  Sweetest  love,  I  do  not  go 
For  weariness  of  thee, 
Nor  in  hope  the  world  can  show 
A  fitter  love  for  me, 
'  But  since  that  I 

Must  die  at  last,  't  is  best 
Thus  to  use  myself  in  jest 
By  feigned  death  to  die. 

"  Yesternight  the  sun  went  hence, 
And  yet  is  here  to-day  ; 
He  hath  no  desire  nor  sense, 
Nor  half  so  short  a  way. 
Then  fear  not  me, 
But  believe  that  I  shall  make 
Hastier  journeys,  since  I  take 
More  wings  and  spurs  than  he. 

"Let  not  thy  divining  heart 

Forethink  nie  any  ill ; 

Destiny  may  take  thy  part, 

And  may  thy  fears  fulfil 

But  think  that  we 

Are  but  laid  aside  to  sleep ; 

They  who  one  another  keep 

Alive,  ne'er  parted  be." 

Near  Donne  in  point  of  time  is  Wotton,  a  statesman  of 
the  time  of  James  I.     For  the  following  familiar 
song,  alone,  he  deserves  to  be  remembered  :  —      1568-1639 

"  How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will, — 
Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought, 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill ! 

"  Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are, 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death,— 
Untied  unto  the  world  by  care 
Of  public  fame  or  private  breath. 


172  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

"  Who  liath  his  life  from  rumors  freed, 
Wliose  conscience  is  his  strong  relreat ; 
Whose  state  can  neither  llaitcrcrs  feed 
Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great. 

"This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall,  — 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands; 
And,  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all." 

George  Wither  was  a  most  voluminous  writer  of  prose  as 
well  as  poetry.  He  took  the  Puritan  side  in  ihe 
political  troubles  which  came  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  I.,  and  wrote  satires  in  verse  and  tracts  in  prose  on 
the  part  of  the  Roundheads.  His  zeal  got  him  two  or 
three  times  imprisoned,  and  once  he  was  in  close  danger 
of  losing  his  life.  At  this  time  Sir  John  Denham,  a  Royal- 
ist, who  was  also  a  poet,  interceded  for  Wither,  saying  that 
he  wanted  him  spared,  that  there  might  be  in  England  one 
poet  accounted  worse  than  he  (Denham).  This  witty 
intercession  of  his  brother  poet  probably  saved  Wither's 
life. 

His  published  works  number  almost  one  hundred. 
Among  so  much  prose  and  verse,  satires,  hymns,  love- 
songs,  etc.,  there  must  be  some  worthless  stuff.  Yet  Wither 
wrote  lyrics  which  place  him  among  the  very  best  of  the 
singers.  I  have  chosen  his  rhymes  on  Chrisimas  because 
they  have  so  spirited  a  ring,  and  give  such  a  vivid  picture 
of  a  jovial  English  Christmastide  :  — 

"  Lo,  now  is  come  our  joyful'st  feast, 

Let  every  man  be  jolly  ; 
Each  room  with  ivy  leaves  is  drcst, 

And  every  jiost  with  holly. 
Though  some  churls  at  our  mirth  repine, 
Around  your  foreheads  garlands  twine, 
Drown  sorrow  in  a  cup  of  wine. 

And  let  us  all  be  merry. 

•*  Now  all  our  neighbors'  chimneys  smoke, 
And  Christmas  blocks  are  burning  ; 
Their  ovens  they  with  baked  meats  choke. 
And  all  their  spits  are  turning. 


ON-  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  173 

Without  the  door  let  sorrow  lie, 
And  if  for  cold  it  hap  to  die, 
We  '11  bury  't  in  a  Christmas  pie. 
And  evermore  be  merry. 

"  Now  every  lad  is  wondrous  trim, 

And  no  man  minds  his  labor ; 
Our  lasses  have  provided  them 

A  bagpipe  and  a  tabor ; 
Young  men  and  maids,  and  girls  and  boys 
Give  life  to  another's  joys, 
And  you  anon  shall  by  their  noise 

Perceive  that  they  are  merry. 

"  Rank  misers  now  do  sparing  shun, 
Their  hall  of  music  soundeth; 
And  dogs  thence  with  whole  shoulders  run, 

So  all  things  there  aboundeth. 
The  country  folk  themselves  advance 
With  crowdy-muttons  out  of  France, 
And  Jack  shall  pipe,  and  Gill  shall  dance, 
And  all  the  town  be  merry. 

"Ned  Swash  hath  fetcht  his  bands  from  pawn. 

And  all  his  best  apparel ; 
Brisk  Nell  hath  bought  a  ruff  of  lawn 

With  droppings  of  the  barrel. 
And  those  that  hardly  all  the  year 
Have  bread  to  eat,  or  rags  to  wear, 
Will  have  both  clothes  and  dainty  fare. 

And  all  the  day  be  merry. 

"Now  poor  men  to  the  justices 

With  capons  make  their  errants, 
And  if  they  hap  to  fail  in  these 

They  plague  them  with  their  warrants. 
But  now  they  feed  them  with  good  cheer, 
And  what  they  want  they  take  in  beer. 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year,' 

And  then  they  shall  be  merry. 

"The  client  now  his  suit  forbears. 

The  prisoner's  heart  is  eased  ; 
The  debtor  drinks  away  his  cares. 

And  for  the  time  is  pleased ; 
Though  others'  purses  be  more  fat, 
Why  should  we  pine  or  grieve  at  that? 
Hang  sorrow!  Care  will  kill  a  cat; 

And  therefore  let 's  be  merry. 


174  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

"  Hark  !  how  the  wags  abroad  do  call 

Each  other  forth  to  rambling; 
Anon  you  '11  see  them  in  the  hall 

For  nuts  and  apples  scrambling. 
Hark  !  how  the  roofs  with  laughter  sound. 
Anon  they  '11  think  the  house  goes  round, 
For  they  the  cellar's  depth  have  found, 

And  there  they  will  be  merry. 

"Then  wherefore  in  these  merry  days 

Should  we,  I  pra)',  be  duller  ? 
No,  let  us  sing  some  roundelays 

To  make  our  mirth  the  fuller; 
And  while  we,  thus  inspired,  sing, 
Let  all  the  streets  with  echoes  ring, 
Woods  and  hills  and  everything 

Bear  witness,  we  are  merry." 

Robert  Herrick  and  George  Herbert,  who  flourished  in 
the  reigns  of  James  I.  and  Charles  I.,  were  clergymen  as 
well  as  poets,  but,  as  clergymen  and  poets,  both  were  of  a 
very  different  order.  Herbert  was  a  saintly  character,  and 
his  poetry  is  nearly  all  devotional,  breathing  a 
spirit  of  real  piety.  He  lived  in  a  sort  of  hal- 
lowed retirement,  always  in  rather  delicate  health,  tended 
by  a  loving  and  beloved  wife,  and  dying  in  the  odor  of 
sanctity.  He  was  a  friend  of  Donne,  and  writes  in  the 
same  style  of  fantastic  imagery,  although  he  never  wrote 
any  verses  in  so  light  a  humor  as  Donne.  Nearly  all  his 
songs  were  religious.  Here  is  a  stanza  or  two  in  his  cha- 
racteristic vein  :  — 

"  I  made  a  posy  while  the  day  ran  by ; 
Here  will  I  smell  my  remnant  out,  and  tie 

My  life  within  this  band  ; 
But  time  did  beckon  to  the  flowers,  and  they 
By  noon  most  cunningly  did  steal  away, 

And  withered  in  my  hand. 

"  Farewell,  dear  flowers,  sweetly  your  time  yc  spent; 
Fit,  while  ye  lived,  for  smell  or  ornament, 

And  after  death,  for  cures 
I  follow  straight,  without  complaints  or  grief, 
Since,  if  my  scent  be  good,  I  care  not  if 
It  be  as  short  as  yours." 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  1 75 

The  following  hymn  of  his,  with  which  I  have  no  doubt 
you  are  familiar,  is,  I  think,  the  best  thing  he  ever  wrote ; 
and  yet,  in  the  last  verse,  in  which  he  compares  the  soul 
to  seasoned  timber,  you  can  see  the  fantastic  sort  of  con- 
ceits which  marred  the  poetry  of  all  this  style  of  writers, 
and  gained  them  the  epithet  ''metaphysical  "  :  — 

"  Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky ; 
The  dews  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night, 
For  thou  must  die. 

"  Sweet  rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave. 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 
And  thou  must  die. 

"  Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 
My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 

"  Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul. 

Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives. 
But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 
Then  chiefly  lives." 

Herrick,   as  I  have  intimated,  was  very  different  from 

Herbert.     The   latter   wrote   only   pious    verses. 
TT      •  ,  111  ^1-1  1681-1662 

Hernck  was  a  lively  rhymester,  makmg  love- 
songs,  drinking-songs,  epigrams,  and  couplets  on  all  worldly 
subjects.  Herbert  loved  quiet  and  retirement,  and  could 
hardly  be  induced  to  come  out  into  the  world.  Herrick 
sought  society  and  convivial  company,  and  railed  at  the 
country.  Yet,  of  the  two,  Robert  Herrick  is  the  more 
musical  poet,  although  he  wrote  much  that  would  better 
never  have  been  written.  And  although  he  professed  to 
hate  the  country,  and  when  he  had  a  vicarage  in  Devon- 
shire frankly  vented  his  dislike  in  these  lines,  — 

"  More  discontent  I  never  had. 
Since  I  was  born,  than  here, 
Where  I  have  been,  and  still  am,  sad. 
In  this  dull  Devonshire  "  — 


176  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

yet,  as  he  himself  says,  his  best  verses  are  inspired  by  brooks, 
birds,  and  blossoms,  and  no  poet  of  the  age  wrote  so  beau- 
tifully of  Nature  as  Herrick.  I  think  this  ode  to  Primroses 
Filled  with  Morning  Detv  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  lyrics 
of  his  age,  perhaps  of  any  age  of  our  poetry  :  — 

"  Why  do  ye  weep,  sweet  babes  !     Can  tears 
Speak  grief  in  you, 
Who  were  but  born 
Just  as  the  modest  morn 
Teemed  her  refreshing  dew  ? 
Alas !  you  have  not  known  that  sliower 
That  mars  a  flower, 
Nor  felt  th'  unkind 
Breath  of  a  blasting  wind, 
Nor  are  ye  worn  with  years, 

Or  warped  as  we. 
Who  think  it  strange  to  see 
Such  pretty  flowers  (like  to  orphans  young ), 
Speaking  by  tears  before  ye  have  a  tongue. 

"Speak,  whimp'ring  younglings,  and  make  known 
The  reason  why 
Ye  droop  and  weep. 
Is  it  for  want  of  sleep, 
Or  childish  lullaby? 
Or  that  ye  have  not  seen  yet 
The  violet  ? 
Or  brought  a  kiss 
From  that  sweetheart  to  this  ? 

"  No,  no  ;  this  sorrow  shown 
By  your  tears  shed 
W'ould  have  this  lecture  read, 
That  things  of  greatest,  so  of  meanest  worth. 
Conceived  with  grief  are,  and  with  tears  brought  forth." 

Herrick  was  driven  from  his  parish  during  the  civil 
war,  and  went  to  London,  where  he  lived  for  some  time 
very  poor.  Here  he  and  Ben  Jonson  were  great  friends, 
and  used  to  sup  together  at  a  tavern,  where  they  held 
what  Herrick  calls  "lyric  feasts."  But  London  never  in- 
spired such  verses  as  did  the  country  sights,  —  the  daffo- 
dils, violets,  and  May-days  of  which  he  wrote  so  feelingly. 
After  a  time  he  went  back  to  his  vicarage  and  wrote  more 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  I  ^^ 

sober  verses.     In  one  of  these  he  prays  devoutly  for  pardon 
for  some  of  his  unhallowed  rhymes  :  — 

"  Forgive  me,  God,  and  blot  each  line 
Out  of  my  book  that  is  not  thine." 

But  as  Heaven  is  not  likely  to  do  for  any  one  that  which 
he  could  easily  do  for  himself,  the  lines  remain  unblotted  to 
this  day. 


XXVIII. 

The  Singers  of  the  Golden  Age  of  Poetry,  —  Carew, 
Suckling,  Lovelace,  Waller. 

CAREW,  Suckling,  and  Lovelace  have  the  air  of  courtiers, 
and  were  all  men  of  the  world.     Thomas  Carew  held 

an  ofifice  in  the  court  of  Charles  L,  and  was  a  witty 

,•  1     J  ,  /  r        1589-1639 

and  accomplished  gentleman,  whose  sonnets  for 

ten  or  fifteen  years  before  the  Puritans  came  into  power 

were  the  most  popular  verses  of  their  time.     They  were 

set  to  music,  and  the  ladies  sang  them  to  their  harpsichords. 

As  you  can  fancy,  they  were  love-songs  that  Carew  wrote. 

Indeed,  have  not  nearly  all  the  lyric  poets  of  the  world 

sung  either  to  Love  or  Death  ?     Their  verses  are  set  to  a 

tender  air  or  a  sad  one.     Carew  writes  thus  of  his  love 

when  spring  approaches  :  — 

"Now  that  the  winter's  gone,  the  earth  hath  lost 
Her  snow-white  robes,  and  now  no  more  the  frost 
Candies  the  grass,  or  casts  an  icy  cream 
Upon  the  silver  lake  or  crystal  stream ; 
But  the  warm  sun  thaws  the  benumbed  earth 
And  makes  it  tender,  gives  a  second  birth 
To  the  dead  swallow,  wakes  in  hollow  tree 
The  drowsy  cuckoo  and  the  humble-bee. 

"Now  do  a  choir  of  chirping  minstrels  bring 
In  triumph  to  the  world  the  youthful  spring; 
The  valleys,  hills,  and  woods,  in  rich  array, 
Welcome  the  coming  of  the  longed-for  May. 
Now  all  things  smile,  only  my  love  doth  lower, 
Nor  hath  the  scalding  noon-day  sun  the  power 

12 


178  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

To  melt  that  marble  ice,  which  still  doth  hold 
Her  heart  congealed,  and  makes  her  pity  cold 

..."  All  things  keep 
Time  with  the  season,  only  she  doth  carry 
June  in  her  eyes,  in  her  heart  January." 

It  will  be  noticed  that  the  extravagance  of  poets  in  their 
love-songs  increases.  The  fashion  which  Surrey  and  Wyatt 
brought  in  of  addressing  the  lady  of  their  verses  as  if  she 
were  more  a  goddess  than  a  mortal  was  carried  to  a  ridicu- 
lous pitch.  Carew  is  one  of  the  poets  who  helped  to  this 
exaggerated  style.  The  following  verses,  in  which  he  writes 
to  his  lady  that  she  has  usurped  the  office  of  the  sun,  and 
can  make  darkness  and  light  at  her  pleasure,  was  a  com- 
mon fiction  in  the  verse  of  these  poets  of  the  seventeenth 
century :  — 

"  If  when  the  sun  at  noon  displays 

His  brighter  rays, 

Thou  but  appear, 
He,  then,  all  pale  with  shame  and  fear, 

Quencheth  his  light; 
Hides  his  dark  brow,  flies  from  thy  sight, 

And  grows  more  dim, 
Compared  to  thee,  than  stars  to  him. 
If  thou  but  show  thy  face  again 
When  darkness  doth  at  midnight  reign. 
The  darkness  flies,  and  light  is  hurled 
Round  about  the  silent  world 
So,  as  alike  thou  drivest  away 
Both  light  and  darkness,  night  and  day." 

Sir  John  Suckling,  a  charming  and  graceful  writer,  al- 
though he  had  ample  gifts,  seems  to  have  prized 
very  lightly  his  gifts  as  poet.  In  one  of  his  witty 
rhymes  called  a  Sessiofi  of  Poets,  Apollo  has  assembled 
them  all  to  see  who  shall  be  crowned  with  the  wreath  of 
laurel.  Suckling  describes  in  his  sprightly  style  all  the 
different  aspirants  for  the  honor,  as  they  were  noted  by 
Apollo,  till  he  touches  himself  thus  :  — 

"  .Suckling  next  was  called,  but  did  not  appear  ; 
And  straight  one  whispered  Apollo  i'the  ear. 
That,  of  all  men  living,  he  cared  not  for't; 
He  loved  not  liie  Muses  so  well  as  his  sport." 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  1 79 

Suckling's  verses  are  true  verses  of  society,  gay,  not  over- 
earnest,  and  with  an  occasional  ring  of  cynicism  in  their 
lines.  The  best  and  most  noted  of  all  his  poems  is  The 
Ballad  on  a  Wedding,  in  which  his  description  of  the  bride 
will  always  be  fresh  and  new.  Here  are  a  few  stanzas 
from   it :  — 

"The  maid  —  and  thereby  hangs  a  tale, 
For  such  a  maid  no  Whitsun-ale 

Could  ever  yet  produce  ; 
No  grape  that 's  kindly  ripe  could  be 
So  round,  so  plump,  so  soft  as  she, 

Nor  half  so  full  of  juice. 

"  Her  finger  was  so  small,  the  ring 
Would  not  stay  on,  which  they  did  bring, 

It  was  too  wide  a  peck  ; 
And,  to  say  truth  (for  out  it  must). 
It  looked  like  the  great  collar  (just) 
About  our  young  colt's  neck. 

"  Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat; 
Like  little  mice,  stole  in  and  out 

As  if  they  feared  the  light. 
But  oh,  she  dances  such  a  way, 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter  day 
Is  half  so  fine  a  sight. 

"  Her  cheeks  so  rare  a  white  was  on, 
No  daisy  makes  comparison  ; 

Who  sees  them  is  undone. 
For  streaks  of  red  were  mingled  there 
Such  as  are  on  a  Catherine  pear,  — 
The  side  that 's  next  the  sun. 

"  Her  lips  were  red,  and  one  was  thin 
Compared  to  that  was  next  her  chin,  — 

Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly  ; 
But,  Dick,  her  eyes  so  guard  her  face, 
I  durst  no  more  upon  them  gaze 
Than  on  the  sun  in  July. 

"  Her  mouth's  so  small,  when  she  doth  speak 
Thou  'dst  swear  her  teeth  her  words  did  break. 

That  they  might  passage  get ; 
But  so  she  handled  still  the  matter 
They  came  as  good  as  ours,  or  better, 

And  are  not  spent  a  whit." 


l80  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Suckling  was  an  ardent  loyalist,  and  when  the  civil  war 
began,  embarked  in  it  with  all  his  heart  and  with  character- 
istic extravagance.  He  equipped  a  company  of  one  hun- 
dred horse  in  such  gorgeous  array  that  they  were  said  to 
have  cost  him  twelve  thousand  pounds.  Then  he  led  his 
dandy  troops  on  an  expedition  which  achieved  nothing, 
and  was  ridiculed  by  the  Puritans  in  a  witty  lampoon.  One 
of  his  biographers  says  that  Sir  John  took  all  this,  and  the 
defeat  of  the  royal  party,  so  sorely  to  heart  that  he  went  to 
the  Continent,  and  ended  his  life  by  a  dose  of  poison. 
RiCR-VRD  Lo\^LACE,  with  his  romantic  name,  was  another 
gallant  poet  of  the  court  of  Charles  I.,  and  loyal 
to  the  king  through  all  misfortunes.  He  was  a 
soldier  in  the  civil  war,  was  twice  imprisoned  by  the  Puri- 
tans, and  at  last  set  free,  ruined  in  fortune  and  broken  in 
health.  The  verses  he  wrote  to  Lady  Lucy  Sacheverel, 
whom  he  calls  Lucasta  in  his  verses,  are  in  the  noblest 
vein  :  — 

"Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind, 
That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 
To  war  and  arms  I  flee. 

"  True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase,  — 
The  first  foe  in  the  field,  — 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 
A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

"  Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 
As  you,  too,  shall  adore  ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much. 
Loved  I  not  honor  more." 

Our  hearts  must  ache  to  think  of  the  sad  end  of  this  gal- 
lant courtier  who  could  write  verses  so  brave  and  tender. 
There  is  another  beautiful  song.  To  Allhea,  written  in 
prison,  in  which  he  says,  — 

"  Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 
Nor  iron  bars  a  cage  ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 
That  for  a  hermitage. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  l8l 

"If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 
And  in  my  soul  am  free, 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above. 
Enjoy  such  liberty." 

It  is  said  he  really  wrote  these  lines  in  prison,  and  that 
the  lady  of  his  love,  believing  he  had  died  of  his  Avounds 
received  before  he  was  imprisoned,  married  another,  per- 
haps while  he  was  writing  these  very  verses  to  her ;  and 
when  he  was  at  last  set  free,  a  ruined  man,  he  found  the 
woman  of  his  dreams  a  happy  wife.  He  died  soon  after 
of  a  slow  consumption,  and  in  his  last  days  was  often  seen, 
his  handsome  face  pale  and  wan,  his  once  elegant  person 
clad  in  ragged  habiliments,  going  down  the  dirty  London 
alley  where  he  had  his  lodgings,  and  where  at  the  last  he 
died  a  sad  and  lonely  death.     Poor  fellow  ! 

Edmund  Waller  is  the  last  of  this  group  of  singers,  as 
sparkling,  musical,  and  full  of  gayety  as  the  best. 
He  also  was  a  courtier  of  Charles  L,  but  changed 
his  colors  easily,  and  when  Cromwell  was  Lord  Protector, 
became  his  adherent,  and  wrote  a  panegyric  on  him  after 
death,  which  is  a  grand  tribute.  But  as  soon  as  Charles  H. 
came  to  the  throne.  Waller  had  a  poem  of  congratulation 
to  offer  him.  When  Charles,  who  was  as  shrewd  as  he  was 
unprincipled  and  good-natured,  said  that  the  poem  on 
Cromwell  was  better  than  that  the  poet  offered  him,  Waller 
answered,  with  ready  wit,  "  Poets  succeed  better  in  fiction 
than  in  truth,  your  Majesty." 

The  name  Waller  celebrated  was  that  of  a  lady  he  called 
Sacharissa, —  a  name  ever  since  famous  inverse.  Generally, 
his  verses  are  light  as  air ;  but  there  is  one  song  which  has  a 
touch  of  sadness,  as  if  written  in  a  minor  key  :  — 

"Go,  lovely  rose, 
Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me 

That  now  she  knows 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

"  Tell  her  that 's  young. 

And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 


1 82  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

In  deserts  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

"  Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired ; 

l>id  her  come  forth, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

"  Then  die  !  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee. 
How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair." 

Of  all  Waller's  songs  I  like  this  best,  because  it  sounds 
most  in  earnest ;  for,  after  all,  these  early  song-writers  do 
not  impress  us  as  being  very  much  in  earnest  in  the  tributes 
they  pay  to  their  Julias  and  Chloes  and  Sacharissas.  Is  it 
a  charm  or  a  defect  of  these  dainty  love-verses  that  they 
do  not  sound  as  if  they  came  out  of  the  depths  of  the 
heart  ?  It  may  be  a  part  of  their  charm  that  they  make 
no  large  demands  on  our  feeling.  Thus,  to  go  back  to  the 
elder  poets  and  to  read  their  lays  is  as  restful  as  listening 
to  that  music  that  asks  of  the  listener  neither  thought  nor 
tears.  They  make  no  pretence  of  intensity  or  earnestness ; 
they  are  as  frank  as  was  Waller  when  his  Sacharissa,  grown 
an  old  woman,  asked,  "  When  will  you  ever  sing  such  songs 
about  me  again?"  and  he  answered,  "When  you  are  again 
young  and  beautiful."  So  these  poets  sang  to  youth,  to 
beauty,  the  bright  eye  and  the  red  lip,  the  bloom  on  the 
peach,  the  unwithered  rose.  The  soul  behind  all  these 
they  did  not  celebrate,  except  in  rare  verses,  which  are  a 
solitary  burst  of  music.  Hence  they  carol  like  birds  in  the 
sky,  clear,  fresh,  and  full  of  joyousness,  like  the  lark,  "  that 
singing  still  doth  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singeth." 


PART    IV. 
— « — 

THE  CIVIL  WAR  AND  THE  RESTORATION. 
MILTON   TO   DRYDEN. 

1 60S    TO    1700. 


INTRODUCTORY. 

BEFORE  going  further  with  the  history  of  the  literature 
and  literary  men  of  the  seventeenth  century,  I  wish 
to  touch  upon  a  political  struggle  which  came  to  an  issue  in 
the  reign  of  Charles  I.,  —  the  contest  between  the  Puritans 
and  the  Royalists. 

The  Puritans,  who  were  a  small  body  in  Elizabeth's 
reign,  had  been  constantly  growing  stronger.  They  were  the 
party  of  extreme  Protestants,  who,  not  satisfied  with  the 
separation  of  the  English  Church  from  the  Church  of  Rome, 
wanted  many  other  reforms.  They  clamored  for  a  change 
in  manners,  in  politics,  and  in  the  church.  Their  leaders 
believed  in  plain  meeting-houses  and  simple  forms  of  wor- 
ship, and  opposed  the  ceremonies  retained  in  the  English 
Church,  because  they  reminded  them  of  the  Church  of 
Rome,  which  was  so  odious  to  them.  In  politics,  their  ideas 
were  as  revolutionary  as  their  ideas  in  religion.  The  greater 
part  of  them  belonged  to  the  people  of  the  middle  class, 
who  had  done  more  than  any  other  for  the  prosperity  of 
England,  but  had  not  shared  the  privileges  of  the  nobles, 
and  began  to  feel  they  were  shut  out  from  many  rights 
which  they  ought  to  claim.  There  were  among  them  a 
strong  spirit  of  revolt  and  many  republican  ideas.  In  the 
time  of  James  I.  a  good  deal  had  been  said  in  the  court 
circles  and  among  the  nobility  about  the  "  divine  right  of 
kings,"  which  was  especially  hateful  to  the  Puritans,  who 
believed  that  the  only  power  not  to  be  questioned  was  the 
power  of  God,  and  denied  divine  right  to  either  pope  or 
kings.  True,  not  all  the  nobles  held  these  extreme  ideas 
of  monarchy.  Walter  Raleigh  opposed  them,  and  in  some 
of  his  latest  letters,  written  to  the  young  Prince  Henry, 


I  86  FAMILIAR   TALKS 

the  eldest  son  of  James  I.,  while  he  was  in  the  Tower,  he 
urged  him  not  to  accept  the  extreme  ideas  of  a  monarch's 
power  over  his  people.  "  Preserve  to  your  future  subjects," 
Raleigh  writes  in  one  of  these  letters,  "  the  divine  right  of 
being  free  agents,  and  to  your  own  royal  house  the  divine 
right  of  being  their  benefactors."  But  king  and  court  were 
not  so  wise  as  was  Raleigh,  and,  unfortunately,  the  young 
Prince  Henry,  who  listened  to  and  admired  his  counsels, 
died,  and  left  the  throne  to  the  prince's  narrow-minded 
brother,  Charles  I.  If  he  had  lived,  we  should  probably 
have  had  a  different  chapter  in  English  history,  in  which 
Oliver  Cromwell  would  have  been  left  out. 

In  manners  and  modes  of  living,  also,  the  Puritans 
favored  a  reform.  They  were  inclined  to  wear  clothes  of 
plain  cut  and  sober  colors ;  they  cropped  their  hair  and 
shaved  their  faces,  and  so  got  the  name  of  Roundheads 
from  their  opponents.  Their  speech  was  serious  and  full  of 
Bible  quotations,  and  it  was  claimed  that  their  constant 
psalm-singing  had  given  their  voices  a  nasal  twang.  They 
took  up  for  their  guidance  many  of  the  laws  of  the  Hebrews 
under  Moses,  and  gave  their  children  Hebrew  names  taken 
from  the  Old  Testament.  They  were  austere  in  conduct, 
discouraged  games  and  amusements,  and  were  especially 
hostile  to  the  theatre.  You  can  imagine,  without  my  tell- 
ing you,  what  an  influence  all  these  ideas  would  have  on 
literature. 

The  Royalists,  who  were  also  called  Cavaliers,  were  in 
broadest  contrast  to  the  Puritans.  The  Cavalier  loved 
mirth  and  revelry.  He  kept  merry  Christmas  each  year, 
and  went  to  see  a  play  when  in  London.  He  wore  bright- 
colored  silks  and  velvets,  and  his  hair  and  beard  were  long 
and  flowing.  He  had  not  been  so  long  weaned  from  the 
Church  of  Rome  that  he  could  feel  as  if  he  were  in  church 
when  he  sat  on  a  bench  inside  the  four  bare  walls  of  a  Puri- 
tan "  meeting-house,"  and  heard  a  preacher  without  a  robe. 
He  wanted  cathedral  and  altar,  fine  singing  in  his  choir,  and 
the  imposing  ceremonies  of  worship.  Above  all,  like  every 
"  true-born  Englishman,"  he  loved   his  sovereign,  whether 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  ig/ 

he  or  she  happened  at  the  time  to  be  EngHsh  Hke  Eliza- 
beth, or  Scotch  Hke  James  I.,  or  German  as  a  century 
later  was  George  of  Brunswick. 

The  Puritans  as  well  as  the  Cavaliers  were  loyal  English- 
men, and  if  Charles  I.  had  been  a  wise,  far-seeing  ruler,  he 
might  have  guided  his  kingdom  through  the  storm  without 
shipwreck.  Instead  of  this,  he  was  bigoted,  narrow-minded, 
and  blind  to  the  best  interests  of  his  people.  He  had  an 
absurd  idea  of  the  divine  right  of  kings,  and  by  his  per- 
sistence in  unjust  authority  he  lost  his  cause,  when  a  little 
yielding  would  have  gained  it.  At  length  he  so  alienated 
the  Puritan  party  that  they  broke  out  in  open  rebellion. 
Their  leader  was  Oliver  Cromwell,  a  man  of  great  power, 
ambition,  and  military  ability.  Under  his  leadership  the 
Puritans  were  so  successful  that  they  carried  everything  be- 
fore them,  and,  seizing  the  king,  they  tried  him  for 
treason  against  the  liberties  of  the  people,  beheaded 
him,  and  took  the  government  into  their  own  hands. 

From  the  time  the  rebellion  began,  until  his  death  in 
1658,  Oliver  Cromwell  was  really  the  ruler  of  England. 
He  was  not  called  so,  however,  till  five  years  before  his 
death,  when  he  received  the  title  of  Lord  Protector.  He 
ruled  England  severely,  like  the  autocrat  he  was,  but  with 
ability  and  wisdom.  When  he  died,  an  attempt  was  made 
to  create  his  son  Richard  Lord  Protector  after  him ;  but  by 
this  time  the  English  people,  who  loved  the  royal  line  in 
spite  of  its  faults,  would  have  no  more  of  Cromwellian  rule. 
They  had  yearned  after  the  son  of  their  dead  king,  who 
had  been  since  youth  exiled  from  his  country,  and  bringing 
home  this  hereditary  prince,  they  made  him  King  Charles  H. 
This  restoring  of  the  prince  to  his  father's  throne 
is  a  notable  point  in  English  history,  and  is  known 
as  the  Restoration. 

Never  did  any  English  sovereign  have  a  nobler  oppor- 
tunity to  make  himself  immortal  in  history  and  blessed  in 
the  memories  of  his  people  than  Charles  H.  He  was 
welcomed  to  the  throne  with  such  joy  as  the  cool-blooded 
English  rarely  show.     If  there  had  been  in  him  one  spark 


1 88  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

of  kingliness  or  of  true  manliness,  he  might  have  been  a 
great  monarch.  He  could  easily,  by  his  influence,  have 
ennobled  politics,  have  made  manners  pure  without  making 
them  too  severe,  have  elevated  literature,  and  have  kept 
religion  on  a  high  level,  free  from  the  gloom  and  hardness 
of  Puritanism  on  the  one  side,  and  the  empty  hollowness  of 
forms  on  the  other.  All  this  Charles  by  his  own  example, 
if  he  had  been  a  noble  gentleman,  might  have  done.  But 
he  was  an  unprincipled,  dishonorable  man.  He  brought 
with  him  a  crowd  of  courtiers,  many  of  whom  had  been  in 
France,  and  who  had  brought  back  all  the  vices  they  found 
there  to  graft  them  on  those  of  England.  Literature,  es- 
pecially the  drama,  reflected  all  these  vices.  Never  was  the 
stage  so  degraded  as  in  the  reign  of  Charles.  Women 
went  in  masks  to  the  theatre,  ashamed  to  show  their  faces 
there  ;  and  men  of  rare  wit  and  great  brilliancy  devoted  all 
their  talents  to  the  production  of  a  poetry  so  full  of  coarse- 
ness that  it  is  now,  happily,  almost  unread  and  unknown. 

As  would  be  natural,  nearly  all  the  literary  men  and 
poets,  from  the  beginning  of  the  civil  war,  were  on  the 
bide  of  the  king,  and  many  of  them  shed  their  blood  for 
his  sake.  From  the  earliest  times  that  the  minstrel  first 
sounded  his  harp  in  the  banquet  halls  of  his  chief,  the  poet 
has  generally  been  under  the  king's  patronage.  Most  of 
the  singers  of  whom  I  have  already  spoken  were  Royalists, 
—  Lovelace,  Suckling,  Herrick,  and  the  rest.  Waller  was 
a  turncoat,  and  could  write  odes  either  for  Cromwell  or 
Charles  H.,  as  occasion  off"ered ;  and  Wither  is  almost  the 
only  man  among  them  who  was  a  Puritan  and  sufi"ercd 
in  the  cause.  There  was,  however,  one  poet,  so  great  that 
he  overtopped  all  others,  and  made  amends  for  the  loss  of 
all  the  rest,  whose  heart  and  brain  were  enlisted  in  the 
Puritan  cause.  This  was  John  Milton,  the  great  English 
epic  poet,  —  the  great  poet  immediately  following  Shake- 
speare ;  and  it  is  with  him  that  I  begin  my  account  of  the 
writers  of  this  period. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  1 89 

XXIX. 

On  John  Milton. 

EIGHT  years  before  the  death  of  Shakespeare,  John 
Milton  was  born.  His  father's  house  was 
in  Bread  Street,  London,  where  the  clanging  of 
Bow  Bells  must  have  been  one  of  the  first  sounds  in  his 
baby  ears.  Close  by,  in  the  same  street,  was  the  Mermaid 
tavern ;  and  when  a  toddling  child,  Milton  may  have  seen 
the  figures  of  Shakespeare,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Ben 
Jonson,  or  any  of  the  notable  members  of  that  club  at  the 
Mermaid,  as  they  passed  the  door  of  his  father's  house  on 
their  way  to  the  famous  old  inn. 

Milton  stands  alone  in  my  imagination,  a  grand  and 
solitary  figure  in  English  literature.  We  do  not  see  him  as 
we  see  Shakespeare,  surrounded  by  a  group  of  poets  of  his 
own  kind,  even  though  far  below  him  in  genius,  or,  like 
Shakespeare  again,  followed  by  a  host  of  imitators.  He 
stands  apart,  dignified,  sublime,  the  great  epic  poet  of  our 
language. 

Somebody  says,  in  a  description  of  Milton's  father,  that 
he  "was  a  good  musician  and  a  bad  poet."  That  the  elder 
Milton  had  an  excellent  talent  for  music  is  proved  by  some 
of  his  compositions  which  still  remain,  and  he  loved  the 
art  so  much  that  his  son  was  trained  in  the  knowledge  of 
it  from  babyhood.  Perhaps  this  early  culture  attuned  Mil- 
ton's ear  to  catch  that  grand  movement  and  harmony  which 
are  the  charm  and  power  of  his  poetry. 

He  was  a  precocious  boy,  delicate  and  scholarly,  and  so 
beautiful,  with  his  fair  skin,  curling  light  hair,  and  brown 
eyes,  that  his  fellow-students  in  college  nicknamed  him  the 
"Lady."  He  wrote  verses  at  seventeen,  studied  till  mid- 
night when  a  mere  child,  and  in  college  says  of  himself : 
"There  for  seven  years  I  studied  the  learning  and  arts 
wont  to  be  taught,  far  from  all  vice  and   approved  by  all 


I90  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

good  men."  At  twenty-four  he  left  college,  and  spent  four 
or  five  years  in  writing  and  study.  During  this  time  he 
wrote  his  two  plays,  Comus  and  Arcades,  his  lyrics,  L Alle- 
gro and  //  Penseroso,  together  with  the  Lament  for  Lyciiias, 
and  some  sonnets.  After  this  he  went  to  France  and  Italy. 
Here  he  spent  a  happy  season,  going  to  literary  parties  in 
Rome,  where  he  met  the  poets  and  scholars  of  the  time, 
and  making  some  lifelong  friends  in  these  journeyings. 
But  the  strife  between  the  court  and  the  Puritans  had 
broken  out  fiercely.  England  had  begun  to  be  in  a  tur- 
moil, and  Milton  was  too  anxious  about  his  country  to  stay 
away  in  content ;  so  he  returned,  and,  taking  a  house  in 
St.  Uride's  Churchyard,  began  as  a  schoolmaster,  teaching 
his  two  nephews  and  some  other  puj)ils  their  Greek,  Latin, 
and  mathematics,  and  writing  meanwhile  vigorous  tracts  in 
favor  of  the  revolutionary  sentiments  every  day  growing 
stronger.  No  more  verse  like  B Allegro,  no  masques  like 
Comiis,  were  again  to  come  from  his  pen. 

When  Cromwell  became  Lord  Protector  of  England, 
Milton  was  made  his  Latin  secretary,  and  was  in  close 
commerce  with  the  heads  of  the  Puritan  party,  writing 
in  favor  of  political  liberty  and  the  liberty  of  the  Press. 
During  this  time  he  undertook  an  answer  to  the  theory  of 
the  divine  right  of  kings,  which,  since  the  beheading  of 
Charles  L,  had  been  strongly  proclaimed  in  Europe.  His 
physicians,  who  saw  symptoms  of  coming  blindness,  begged 
him  not  to  begin  this  work ;  but  he  would  not  be  moved 
from  what  he  thought  was  duty,  and  continued  until  he 
became  totally  blind. 

After  Cromwell's  death,  and  Charles  H.  had  been  re- 
stored to  the  throne  of  his  father,  Milton,  whose  life  was 
for  a  time  in  danger,  settled  down  in  the  leisure  of  old  age 
and  blindness,  with  the  design  of  writing  a  great  poem,  — 
a  design  which,  no  doubt,  had  been  in  his  thoughts  while 
affairs  of  state  had  held  him  busy.  For  twenty  years  he 
had  written  no  poetry.  Now  he  resolved  that  he  would 
take  something  worthy  of  him. — a  heroic  subject  with 
heroic   treatment.     He  would  write  no  more  light  verses, 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TUKE.  191 

as  in  his  earlier  poems ;  no  rhymes,  which  he  now  called 
"  the  jingling  sound  of  like  endings,  .  .  .  the  invention  of  a 
barbarous  age  to  set  off  wretched  matter  and  lame  metre." 

He  first  thought  of  taking  the  British  King  Arthur  for 
the  hero  of  his  work;  but  finally  chose  a  supernatural 
subject,  —  the  revolt  of  Satan  in  Heaven,  and  the  expul- 
sion of  Adam  and  Eve  from  Paradise,  which,  in  an  earlier 
age,  had  been  the  theme  of  Caedmon's  untaught  pen. 
Paradise  Regained  followed  Paradise  Lost,  and  these 
epics,  with  the  tragedy  of  Samson  Agonistes,  whose  hero 
was  the  mighty  Hebrew  smitten  with  blindness,  were  the 
work  of  Milton's  latest  days. 

You  will  notice  that  Milton's  writings  are  in  three  distinct 
groups,  —  his  early  poems,  written  in  the  lyric  style  ;  his 
prose  works,  composed  in  the  middle  period  of  his  life  ; 
and  his  later  poems,  written  in  the  epic  style,  —  with  the 
exception  of  Samson  Agonistes,  which  is  a  drama,  —  and 
only  in  blank  verse. 

I  fancy  that  Milton,  in  his  later  days,  when  he  wrote 
Paradise  Lost,  did  not  have  a  great  admiration  for  his 
early  poems.  Yet  they  are  so  musical  and  so  graceful  that 
I  am  very  glad  he  did  not  hold  his  severe  opinions  about 
rhyme  when,  in  early  manhood,  he  wrote  these  fanciful 
verses,  with  their  "jingling  sound  of  like  endings." 

The  lightest  of  all  his  pieces  are  L Allegro  and  //  Pense- 
roso,  the  first  an  ode  to  Mirth,  and  the  last  an  ode  to 
Melancholy.  In  the  first,  after  bidding  "  loathed  Melan- 
choly"  begone,  he  continues  with  this  gay  invocation  : 

"  Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest  and  youthful  Jollity, 
Quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles. 
Nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek; 
Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides. 
And  Laughter,  holding  both  his  sides. 
Come,  and  trip  it  as  ye  go, 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe  ; 
And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 
The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty  ; 


192  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

And  if  I  give  thee  honor  due, 
Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 
To  live  with  her,  and  Hvc  with  thee, 
In  unreproved  pleasures  free." 

Then  the  poet  goes  on  to  paint  the  deUghts  of  a  day  in 
the  country.     At  early  morn  he  awakes  — 

"  To  hear  the  lark  begin  her  flight, 
And  singing  startle  the  dull  night, 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise  ; 
Then  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow, 
And  at  my  window  bid  good- morrow, 
Through  the  sweet-brier,  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine  ; 
While  the  cock,  with  lively  din, 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin, 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door, 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before  : 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  Morn, 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill, 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill. 
Sometime  walking  not  unseen 
By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate, 
Where  the  great  Sun  begins  his  state, 
Robed  in  flames,  and  amber  light, 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight. 
While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand. 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land. 
And  the  milkmaid  singcth  blithe. 
And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe. 
And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 
Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures, 
Whilst  the  landscape  round  it  measures ; 
Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray. 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray. 
Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest ; 
Meadows  trim,  with  daisies  pied. 
Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide. 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees, 
Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees. 
Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies. 
The  Cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  1 93 

Sometimes  with  secure  delight 

The  upland  hamlets  will  mvite  ; 

When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 

And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 

To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid. 

Dancing  in  the  checkered  shade  ; 

And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 

On  a  sunshine  holiday, 

Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail." 

So  the  day  passes  in  innocent  sport  till  sunset,  when  the 
country  folk  gather  to  take  their  spicy  nut-brown  ale,  and 
tell  stories  of  fairies  and  of  the  good  little  house-goblins 
who  do  the  housework  when  the  maids  are  asleep,  con- 
tented if  a  bowl  of  cream  be  set  out  for  them  to  drink 
when  work  is  over.  Their  stories  done,  the  country  people 
creep  to  bed,  while  the  poet  goes  towards  the  city  and  its 
pleasures : — 

"...  The  busy  hum  of  men, 
Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold, 
In  weeds  of  peace  high  triumphs  hold, 
With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 
There  let  Hymen  oft  appear, 
In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 
And  pomp  and  feast  and  revelry, 
With  mask  and  antique  pageantry  ; 
Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream. 
Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 
If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on, 
Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  cWd, 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild." 

Thus  the  day  of  pleasure  ends  in  a  gush  of  soft  music, 
when  the  poet  sinks  to  rest,  lapped  in  "  Lydian  airs  — 

"  Married  to  immortal  verse, 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce 
In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out ; 
With  wanton  heed,  and  giddy  cunning. 
The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running; 
13 


194  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony. 

These  delights,  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live." 

The  companion  to  L' Allegro  was  //  Fenseroso,  in  which 
he  sings  the  praise  of  sadness  as  he  has  sung  that  of  mirth. 
But  Milton's  melancholy,  like  his  mirth,  is  temperate  and 
not  passionate.     He  addresses  a  — 

"  Goddess  sage  and  holy. 
Hail  !  divinest  Melancholy, 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight  ; 
And  therefore,  to  our  weaker  view, 
O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue. 

Come,  pensive  Nun,  devout  and  pure, 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 
All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain, 
Flowing  with  majestic  train. 
And  sable  stole  of  Cyprus  lawn, 
Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 
Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state. 
With  even  step  and  musing  gait, 
And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 
Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes  : 
There  held  in  holy  j^assion  still, 
Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 
With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast. 
Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast." 

In  contrast  to  Mirth,  whose  course  was  begun  in  the 
joyous  day  by  the  singing  of  the  lark,  Melancholy  is  of  the 
evening,  and  her  bird  is  the  sad  nightingale,  who  sings  in 
dusky  twilight.  The  poet  paints  himself  wandering  over 
the  smooth-shaven  green,  watching  the  moon,  half  hid  by 
fleecy  clouds ;  or  later,  going  to  his  study,  — 

"  Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom  ;  " 

till  finally,  in  his  lonely  tower,  he  lights  his  midnight  lamp 
and  watches  out  the  night  with  his  books.  Plato,  Homer, 
the  great  tragic  poets,  and  our  own  Chaucer,  all  speak  to 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE. 


195 


him  from  their  pages  in  "  Sage  and  solemn  tunes,  .  .  . 
where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear,"  till  morning 
dawns  again. 

"  Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career, 
Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear  ; 
Not  tricked  and  frounced,  as  she  was  wont 
With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt, 

But  kerchiefed  in  a  comely  cloud, 

While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud  : 

Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still. 

When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill, 

Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves 

With  minute  drops  from  off  the  eaves. 

And  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 

His  flaring  beams,  me,  Goddess,  bring 

To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves 

And  shadows  brown  that  Sylvan  loves. 

Of  pine  or  monumental  oak, 

Where  the  rude  axe,  with  heaved  stroke. 

Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt, 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 

There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook. 

Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look. 

Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye  ; 

While  the  bee  with  honeyed  thigh, 

That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing. 

And  the  waters  murmuring 

With  such  consort  as  they  keep, 

Entice  the  dewy-feathered  Sleep  ; 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 

Wave  at  his  wings  in  airy  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  displayed, 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid. 

And  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath, 

Sent  by  some  spirit  to  mortals  good, 

Or  th'  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 

To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale, 

And  love  the  high  embowed  roof, 

With  antique  pillars  massy  proof. 

And  storied  windows  richly  dight, 

Casting  a  dim  religious  light. 

There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 

To  the  full-voiced  choir  below, 

In  service  high,  and  anthems  clear, 

As  may  with  sweetness  through  mine  ear, 


196  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies, 

And  bring  all  Heaven  Lei'oie  miue  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage  — 
The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell, 
Where  I  may  sit,  and  rightly  spell 
Of  every  star  that  Heaven  doth  show, 
And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew  ; 
Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  like  i:irophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give, 
And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live." 


XXX. 

Milton's  "  Comus,"  "  Par.adi.se  Lost,"  and  "  Samson 
Agonistes." 

I  HAVE  before  told  you  something  about  the  masques,  — 
a  kind  of  dramatic  entertainment  fashionable  all  through 
the  reign  of  Elizabeth  to  the  time  of  Charles  I.  These 
masques  were  frequently  performed  at  court  in  the  palace  of 
the  sovereign,  and  were  often  a  part  of  the  Christmas  enter- 
tainment in  the  houses  of  the  nobility.  At  that  time  no 
women  ever  performed  in  the  plays  in  any  public  theatre, 
but  in  these  masques,  or  private  entertainments,  the  ladies, 
as  well  as  the  gentlemen,  took  part.  It  was  therefore 
quite  the  fashion  to  write  a  masque,  and  the  best  writers  of 
the  time  were  proud  to  try  their  hand  at  it.  The  great  Lord 
Bacon  wrote  masques,  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth  and  James  L, 
and  the  principal  dramatic  poets,  except  Shakespeare,  have 
one  or  more  among  their  works.  We  shall  not  be  sur- 
prised, therefore,  to  learn  that  Milton  wrote  two  masques,  — 
the  Comus  and  Arcades.  The  last  of  these,  which  is  only  a 
fragment,  was  played  before  the  Countess  of  Derby,  at  Hat- 
field, by  some  of  her  family,  and  Comus  was  given  at  Ludlow 
Castle,  the  country  house  of  the  Ivirl  of  Bridgewater.  The 
chief  characters  in  Comus,  a  young  maiden  and  her  brothers, 
were  played  by  the  Lady  Alice  Egerton,  daughter  of  the 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TL/RE. 


197 


earl,  and  his  sons,  Lord  Brackly  and  Sir  Thomas  Egerton. 
The  story  is  of  a  lady  who,  in  coming  through  the  forest,  is 
separated  from  her  two  brothers,  her  companions.  The 
wood  is  haunted  by  Comus,  a  spirit  of  unwholesome  mirth, 
who,  with  a  crew  of  monsters  in  the  forms  of  men  with  the 
heads  of  beasts,  is  holding  wild  revels  there.  Comus,  dis- 
guised as  a  shepherd,  under  pretence  of  leading  the  lady  to 
her  brothers,  beguiles  her  to  his  palace,  where  he  tries  to 
bring  her  under  his  enchantments ;  but  as  she  is  too  pure 
and  good  to  be  harmed  by  his  spells,  he  leaves  her,  after 
succeeding  in  fixing  her  to  a  chair  in  the  banquet-room, 
which  holds  her  fast  so  that  she  cannot  move  from  it. 
Here  she  is  found  by  her  brothers,  led  by  her  guardian 
spirit ;  and  with  the  aid  of  the  river- nymph  Sabrina  she  is 
rescued  and  brought  to  her  father's  castle. 

This  is  the  plot  of  Comus,  which  Milton  is  said  to  have 
founded  on  the  fact  that  the  Lady  Alice  had  recently  missed 
her  way  in  some  woodland  excursion,  and  thus  caused  some 
alarm  to  her  friends.  It  is  a  very  simple  plot,  but  Milton 
has  woven  in  it  a  most  exquisite  play.  It  is  too  perfect  a 
whole  to  quote  in  passages,  and  must  be  read  entire ;  but  no 
one  who  wishes  to  know  Milton  as  a  poet  in  youth  should 
fail  to  read  the  Comus. 

It  is  as  a  poet  that  we  consider  Milton,  and  so  we  must 
pass  by  his  prose  works,  many  of  which  were  written  in 
Latin ;  but,  in  passing,  I  must  tell  you  that  his  plea  for  the 
liberty  of  the  Press  (a  prose  tract  which  bears  the  hard  title 
of  Areopagitica)  is  the  one  of  all  his  prose  works  best 
worth  your  reading.  Milton's  pen  and  influence  were  gen- 
erally used  for  freedom,  —  freedom  of  speech,  freedom  of 
thought,  freedom  of  belief;  and  although  there  are  occa- 
sions on  which  he  w.as  not  so  generous  as  we  who  live  in 
the  present  might  wish  he  had  been,  yet  he  was  so  far 
ahead  of  his  time  in  his  thought  that  we  must  admire  him 
as  a  grand  mouthpiece  of  Liberty. 

There  is  something  that  touches  the  heart  in  the  picture 
we  have  of  him  in  the  last  of  life,  when  he  sat  down,  blind 
and  poor,  to  write  Paradise  Lost.    I  am  sorry  that  very  few 


198  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

people  nowadays  read  Paradise  Lost,  and  I  fear  as  time  goes 
on  that  it  will  be  even  less  read.  Unfortunately,  the  poera 
in  its  subject  and  its  characters  docs  not  come  within  the 
scope  of  human  interest,  and  the  greatest  poet  in  the  world 
would  find  it  difficult  to  keep  the  attention  of  his  readers 
if  he  did  not  write  about  things  that  excite  the  sympathy 
or  touch  the  emotions.  Notwithstanding  the  grand  style 
and  organ-like  melody  of  Paradise  Lost,  a  great  many  who 
attempt  to  read  it  put  it  away  as  tiresome.  Yet  any  one 
who  has  an  ear  for  a  grand  poetic  measure,  so  superb  in 
harmony  that  it  has  never  been  equalled  in  English  verse 
from  Chaucer  to  this  day,  must  be  charmed  by  Milton's 
mighty  line.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  poet's  early  musical 
training  shows  in  his  style.  It  is  after  the  manner  of  a 
grand  instrument ;  your  ear  would  be  held  captive  if  you  did 
not  heed  the  sense,  and  from  beginning  to  end,  wherever  his 
theme  leads  him,  he  preserves  the  same  unbroken  harmony. 
That  Milton  was  able  to  touch  the  heart  of  his  reader, 
and  that  if  he  had  chosen  a  subject  within  the  sphere  of 
natural  human  sympathy  he  could  have  held  the  interest, 
is  proved  by  the  fact  that  when  he  claims  our  sympathy,  he 
does  it  with  great  power.  We  shall  feel  this  in  Book 
Third  of  Paradise  Lost,  which  begins  by  an  all-hail  to 
Light,  "  Offspring  of  Heaven  first-born,"  where  he  goes  on 
with  touching  sadness,  — 

"]!ut  thou 
Revisit'st  not  these  eyes,  that  roll  in  vain 
To  find  thy  piercing  ray,  and  find  no  dawn ; 
So  thick  a  drop  serene  hath  quenched  their  orbs, 
Or  dim  suffusion  veiled.     Yet  not  the  more 
Cease  I  to  wander,  where  the  Muses  haunt 
Clear  spring,  or  shady  grove,  or  sunny  hill, 
Smit  with  the  love  of  sacred  song ;  but  chief 
Thee,  Sion,  and  the  flowery  brooks  beneath. 
That  wash  thy  hallowed  feet,  and  warbling  flow. 
Nightly  I  visit.  .  .  . 

Then  feed  on  thoughts,  that  voluntary  move 
Harmonious  numbers;  as  the  wakeful  bird 
Sings  darkling  and  in  shadiest  covert  hid. 
Tunes  her  nocturnal  note.     Thus  with  the  year 
Seasons  return  ;  but  not  to  mc  returns 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATUKE.  199 

Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn. 

Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  rose, 

Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine  ; 

But  cloud  instead,  and  ever-during  dark 

Surrounds  me,  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men 

Cut  off,  and  for  the  book  of  knowledge  fair 

Presented  with  a  universal  blank 

Of  nature's  works,  to  me  expunged  and  rased, 

And  wisdom  at  one  entrance  quite  shut  out. 

So  much  the  rather  thou.  Celestial  Light, 

Shine  inward,  and  the  mind  through  all  her  powers 

Irradiate,  there  plant  eyes,  all  mists  from  thence 

Purge  and  disperse,  that  I  may  see  and  tell 

Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight." 

In  his  tragedy  of  Samson,  Milton  also  touches  on  the 
same  subject  in  a  strain  of  patient  and  majestic  sorrow.  It 
seems  as  if  the  figure  of  the  blind  Samson  was  akin  to 
Milton,  and  that  he  chose  him  for  his  hero  because  he  felt 
the  resemblance.  Thus  Samson  soliloquizes  as  he  sits  in 
Gaza,  — 

"But,  peace,  I  must  not  quarrel  with  the  will 
Of  highest  dispensation,  which  herein 
Haply  had  ends  above  my  reach  to  know; 
Suffices  that  to  me  strength  is  my  bane, 
And  proves  the  source  of  all  my  miseries, 
So  many  and  so  huge,  that  each  apart 
Would  ask  a  life  to  wail  ;  but  chief  of  all, 
O  loss  of  sight,  of  thee  I  most  complain ! 
Blind  among  enemies,  oh,  worse  than  chains, 
Dungeon,  or  beggary,  or  decrepit  age  ! 
Light,  the  prime  work  of  God,  to  me  is  extinct, 
And  all  her  various  objects  of  delight 
Annulled,  which  might  in  part  my  grief  have  eased. 
Inferior  to  the  vilest  now  become 
Of  man  or  worm  ;  the  vilest  here  excel  me; 
They  creep,  yet  see ;  I,  dark,  in  light  exposed 
To  daily  fraud,  contempt,  abuse,  and  wrong. 
Within  doors,  or  without,  still  as  a  fool 
In  power  of  others,  never  in  my  own  ; 
Scarce  half  I  seem  to  live,  dead  more  than  half. 
Oh,  dark,  dark,  dark,  amid  the  blaze  of  noon 
Irrevocably  dark,  total  eclipse. 
Without  all  hope  of  day  ! 
O  first  created  Beam,  and  thou  great  Word, 
Let  there  be  light,  and  light  was  over  all, 


200  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Why  am  I  thus  bereaved  thy  prime  decree? 

The  sun  to  me  is  dark 

And  silent  as  the  moon 

When  she  deserts  the  night, 

Hid  in  her  vacant  intcriunar  cave. 

Since  light  so  necessary  is  to  life, 

And  almost  life  itself,  if  it  be  true 

That  light  is  in  the  soul, 

She  all  in  every  part,  why  was  the  sight 

To  such  a  tender  ball  as  th'  eye  confined, 

So  obvious,  and  so  easy  to  be  quenched. 

And  not  as  feeling  through  all  parts  diffused. 

That  she  might  look  at  will  through  every  pore? 

Then  had  I  not  been  thus  exiled  from  light, 

As  in  the  land  of  darkness,  yet  in  light. 

To  live  a  life  half  dead,  a  living  death. 

And  buried  ;  but,  oh,  yet  more  miserable, 

Myself  my  sepulchre,  a  moving  grave, 

Buried,  yet  not  exempt 

By  privilege  of  death  and  burial 

From  most  of  other  evils,  pains,  and  wrongs, 

But  made  hereby  obnoxious  more 

To  all  the  miseries  of  life,  — 

Life  in  captivity 

Among  inhuman  foes." 

Milton's  later  poetry  must  be  read  in  grand  passages 
like  these,  to  be  appreciated.  There  are  few  young  readers 
who  will  read  Paradise  Lost  entire,  and  they  will  be  likely 
to  enjoy  his  youthful  poems  most.  Indeed,  we  are  not 
apt  to  be  pleased  with  epic  poetry  in  youth.  The  incidents 
of  the  dramatic  poem  or  the  music  of  the  lyric  then 
please  us  best ;  and  until  life  is  mature  we  can  rarely  see 
fully  the  greatness  of  Homer  or  Milton,  and  set  them  in 
their  place  among  the  poets  of  the  world. 

But  if  we  did  not  care  for  Milton's  poetry,  we  should 
admire  him  as  a  man.  He  wrote  his  great  poems  in  an 
age  when  literature  reflected  the  license  that  followed  in 
natural  reaction  from  the  severe  rule  of  the  Puritans.  Never 
was  literature  so  degraded  as  in  that  age,  when  the  reign- 
ing poets,  from  the  laureate  down,  put  common  decency  to 
the  blush,  cried  out  upon  everything  sacred,  and  believed 
neither  in  honor  nor  virtue  among  men  or  women.  Amid 
all    these    Milton    shone  like   a  star,  living  the  life  of  an 


OiV  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  201 

ascetic,  and  by  the  practice  of  a  noble  temperance  pre- 
paring himself  to  compose  his  grand  epic.  Thus  he  stands 
apart  from  and  above  his  contemporaries,  a  noble,  self- 
centred  man,  who  in  an  age  of  license  sang  only  to  the 
highest  ideals  and  in  praise  of  the  loftiest  virtue. 

"  Love  Virtue  ;  she  alone  is  free  : 
She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime; 
Or  if  Virtue  feeble  were, 
Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her." 


XXXI. 

On  Milton's  Contemporaries,  — Marvell,  Cowley,  and 
Butler. 

MILTON  was  the  great  poet  of  his  century ;  there  is  no 
other  man  of  the  time  worthy  to  rank  beside  him, 
either  among  Puritans  or  Cavaliers.  His  place  in  literature 
is  all  the  more  distinctive  because  he  was  a  Puritan,  and 
nearly  all  the  other  poets  of  the  time  were  Royalists,  de- 
voted to  the  king's  cause.  There  is  one  other  writer  who 
was  in  sympathy  with  Milton,  who  desen^es  to  be  mentioned 
near  him.  This  is  Andrew  Marvell,  who,  although  a  Puri- 
tan, was  a  moderate  man,  and  knew  how  to  find  the 
middle  path,  in  which  tolerance  and  common-sense  usu- 
ally walk  together. 

Marvell  lived  in  Lincolnshire,  a  county  which  was  famous 
for  Puritans,  and  sent  so  many  emigrants  to 
America  in  the  early  settlement  of  New  England. 
After  Charles  IL  was  restored  to  the  throne,  Marvell  was 
sent  to  represent  his  native  town  in  Parliament,  and  held 
the  seat  in  firm  opposition  to  the  vices  of  the  rulers.  He 
was  a  man  so  wise  and  witty  that  the  king  could  not  help 
admiring  him.  and  once  sent  a  lord  of  the  treasury  to 
see  if  he  could  not  be  won  over  to  the  royal  side.     Marvell 


202  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

received  his  .c;uest  hospitably,  but  gave  him  mutton  for  din- 
ner on  three  successive  days ;  and  when  the  courtier  at 
last  offered  him  place  and  money  to  change  his  politics, 
the  stanch  old  Roundhead  told  him  plainly  that  since  he 
could  dine  contentedly  every  day  on  a  shoulder  of  mutton, 
the  king  could  offer  him  no  inducement  to  change  his 
colors. 

Marvell's  writings  are  principally  political  satires,  witty 
in  his  time,  but  not  interesting  now.  He  has,  however,  a 
few  poems  that  from  their  sentiment  have  been  able  to 
outlive  his  age,  and  I  select  one  of  the  shortest.  It  is  on 
Eyes  atid  Tears,  and  is,  as  you  will  notice,  in  the  style  of 
the  metaphysical  poets,  with  its  talk  about  "  watery  lines 
and  plummets,"  and  the  sun  "  distilling  the  world  with 
chemic  ray."  In  spite  of  this,  there  are  some  pretty 
thoughts  in  the  verses,  and  the  last  dozen  lines  I  think  are 
very  beautiful. 

EYES    AND   TEARS. 

"  How  wisely  Nature  did  decree 
With  the  same  eyes  to  weep  and  see, 
That,  having  viewed  the  object  vain, 
They  might  be  ready  to  complain  ! 
And  since  the  self-deluding  sight 
In  a  false  angle  takes  each  height, 
These  tears,  which  better  measure  all, 
Like  watery  lines  and  plummets  fall. 
Two  tears,  which  sorrow  long  did  weigh 
Within  the  scales  of  either  eye, 
And  then  paid  out  in  equal  ])oise, 
Are  the  true  price  of  all  my  joys. 
What  in  the  world  most  fair  appears, 
Yea,  even  laughter,  turns  to  tears, 
And  all  the  jewels  that  we  prize 
Melt  in  these  pendants  of  the  eyes. 
I  have  through  every  garden  been 
Amongst  the  red,  the  white,  the  green, 
And  yet  from  all  those  flowers  I  saw 
No  honey  but  these  tears  could  draw. 
.So  the  all-seeing  sun  each  day 
Distils  the  world  with  chemic  ray, 
]{ut  finds  the  essence  only  showers, 
Which  straight  in  pity  back  he  pours. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  203 

Yet  happy  they  whom  grief  doth  bless, 
That  weep  the  more  and  see  the  less, 
And  to  preserve  their  sight  more  true 
Bathe  still  their  eyes  in  their  own  dew. 
So  Magdalen  in  tears  more  wise 
Dissolves  those  captivating  eyes 
Whose  liquid  chains  could  flowing  meet 
To  fetter  her  Redeemer's  feet. 

The  incense  is  to  Heaven  dear 
Not  as  a  perfume,  but  a  tear  ; 
And  stars  show  lovely  in  the  night 
But  as  they  seem  the  tears  of  light. 
Ope,  then,  my  eyes,  your  double  sluice, 
And  practise  so  your  noblest  use  ; 
For  others  too  can  see  or  sleep. 
But  only  human  eyes  can  weep." 

Another  noted  poet  of  this  age  is  Abraham  Cowley,  a 
trusted  servant  and  secretary  of  Charles  I.,  and  igi3_ig67 
afterwards  devoted  to  his  son,  Charles  II.,  who 
seems  to  have  neglected  the  poet  during  his  life,  and  to 
have  contented  himself  with  saying  of  him  after  his  death, 
"Mr.  Cowley  has  not  left  behind  him  a  better  man  in 
England." 

Milton  prized  Cowley  highly,  and  thought  him  one  of  the 
greatest  among  poets ;  but  he  is  not  so  much  valued  now. 
Much  better  than  his  verses  I  like  his  prose  essays,  of 
which  he  wrote  a  dozen  or  more.  The  theme  of  nearly  all 
his  essays  is  a  praise  of  country  life,  —  a  life  without  ambi- 
tion or  cares,  led  among  green  fields  and  beside  still  waters. 
The  titles  of  the  essays  indicate  this.  They  are  on  Solitude, 
Gardens,  Agriculture,  Liberty,  and  kindred  subjects.  It 
seemed  as  if  in  all  he  wrote,  Cowley  felt  the  tediousness 
and  hollowness  of  a  life  at  court,  and  longed  to  be  free 
from  it.  In  his  essay  on  Agriculture  he  exalts  above  all 
lives  that  of  the  farmer,  and  in  his  essay  on  Greatness  he 
praises  a  simple  house  and  simple  fare  above  all  the  luxury 
of  court.  His  essay  on  Liberty  contains  as  grand  a  defini- 
tion of  Freedom  as  has  ever  been  given.  He  says,  "  The 
liberty  of  a  people  consists  in  being  governed  by  laws 
which  they  have  made  themselves,  under  whatsoever  form 


204  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

it  be  of  government ;  the  liberty  of  a  private  man,  in 
being  master  of  his  own  time  and  actions,  as  far  as  may 
consist  with   the  laws  of  God  and  his  country." 

Toward  the  end  of  his  Ufe  Cowley  did  attain  to  a  little 
estate  in  the  country,  about  which  he  had  written  so  much 
and  had  so  longed  for.  He  did  not  live  very  long  to  enjoy 
it,  and  had  suffered  so  many  disappointments  before  getting 
it  that  he  was  not  altogether  happy  in  the  realization  of  his 
wishes.  After  a  few  years  in  this  retreat,  he  died  suddenly 
of  cold  caught  from  getting  overheated  while  working  during 
the  har\'est  among  his  laborers, 

Cowley  was  a  versatile  writer  both  in  prose  and  verse. 
In  poetry  he  has  one  long  epic,  of  which  the  Hebrew  king 
David  is  the  hero ;  he  also  wrote  several  plays.  But  of  all 
his  poetry  I  like  much  best  his  shorter  pieces.  He  was 
very  familiar  with  the  Greek  and  Latin  poets,  and  trans- 
lated many  of  their  verses  with  such  spirit  that  they  have 
the  merit  of  an  original.  His  Sorigs  from  Anacrcon  are 
specimens  of  this  easy  and  free  rendering. 

Cowley  began  to  write  very  early,  and  tells  us  in  one  of 
his  essays,  entitled  "  Myself,"  that  he  wrote  verses  at  thir- 
teen. He  says  here  :  "  How  this  love  of  poetry  came  to  be 
produced  in  me  so  early  is  a  hard  question.  I  believe  I 
can  tell  the  particular  little  chance  which  filled  my  head 
first  with  such  chimes  of  verse  as  have  never  since  left 
ringing  there ;  for  I  remember  when  I  began  to  read,  and 
to  take  some  pleasure  in  it,  there  was  wont  to  lie  in  my 
mother's  parlor  (I  know  not  by  what  accident,  for  she  her- 
self never  in  her  life  read  any  book  but  of  devotion),  but 
there  was  wont  to  lie  Spenser's  works ;  this  I  happened  to 
fall  upon,  and  was  infinitely  delighted  with  the  stories  of  the 
knights,  monsters,  and  giants,  and  brave  houses  which  I 
found  everywhere  there  (though  my  understanding  had 
very  little  to  do  with  all  this),  and  by  degrees,  with  the 
tinkling  of  the  rhymes  and  the  dance  of  the  numbers,  I 
had  read  him  all  over  before  I  was  twelve  years  old,  and 
was  thus  made   a  poet  almost  immediately." 

I  think  I  cannot  give  you  a  more  characteristic  specimen 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  205 

of  Cowley,  as  showing  the  bent  of  his  mind  as  well  as  his 
easy  style,  than  by  quoting  a  story  which  he  borrowed 
from  one  of  the  Latin  authors,  and  which  is  added  to  one 
of  his  essays  in  praise  of  a  country  life.  It  is  The  Country 
Mouse :  — 

"  At  the  large  foot  of  a  fair  hollow  tree, 
Close  to  ploughed  ground,  seated  commodiously. 
His  ancient  and  hereditary  house, 
There  dwelt  a  good,  substantial  country  mouse. 
Frugal  and  grave,  and  careful  of  the  main, 
Yet  one  who  once  did  nobly  entertain 
A  city  mouse,  well-coated,  sleek,  and  gay, 
A  mouse  of  high  degree,  who  lost  his  way, 
Wantonly  walking  forth  to  take  the  air, 
And  arrived  early  and  alighted  there 
For  a  day's  lodging  j  the  good,  hearty  host, 
The  ancient  plenty  of  his  hall  to  boast, 
Did  all  the  stores  produce  that  might  excite. 
With  various  tastes,  the  courtier's  appetite,  — 
Fitches  and  beans,  peason  and  oats,  and  wheat, 
And  a  large  chestnut,  the  delicious  meat 
Which  Jove  himself,  were  he  a  mouse,  would  eat ; 
And  for  a  ItaiitgOHt  there  was  mixed  with  these 
The  swerd  of  bacon,  and  the  coat  of  cheese,  — 
The  precious  relics  which  at  harvest  he 
Had  gathered  from  the  reaper's  luxury. 
'  Freely,'  said  he,  '  fall  on,  and  never  spare  ; 
The  bounteous  gods  will  for  to-morrow  care-' 
And,  thus  at  ease,  on  beds  of  straw  they  lay. 
And  to  their  genius  sacrificed  the  day. 
Yet  the  nice  guest's  epicurean  mind, 
Though  breeding  made  him  civil  seem  and  kind, 
Despised  this  country  feast,  and  still  his  thought 
U|)on  the  pies  and  cakes  of  London  wrouglit. 
'  Your  bounty  and  civility,'  said  he, 
'  Which  I  'm  surprised  in  these  rude  parts  to  see, 
Shows  that  the  gods  have  given  you  a  mind 
Too  noble  for  the  fate  that  here  you  find. 
Why  should  a  soul  so  virtuous  and  so  great 
Lose  itself  thus  in  an  obscure  retreat? 
Let  savage  beasts  lodge  in  a  country  den. 
You  should  see  towns,  and  manners  know,  and  men, 
And  taste  the  generous  luxury  of  the  court. 
Where  all  the  mice  of  quality  resort.     .     .     . 
We  all,  ere  long,  must  render  up  our  breath; 
No  cave  nor  hole  can  shelter  us  from  death. 


206  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Since  life  is  so  uncertain  and  so  short, 

Let 's  spend  it  all  in  feasting  and  in  sport. 

Come,  worthy  sir,  come  with  nie,  and  partake 

All  the  great  things  that  mortals  happy  make.' 

Alas!  what  virtues  hath  sufficient  arms 

T'  oppose  bright  honor  and  soft  pleasure's  charms  ? 

What  wisdom  can  their  magic  force  repel  ? 

It  draws  this  reverend  hermit  from  his  cell.  .  .  . 

"  Plainly,  the  truth  to  tell,  the  sun  was  set 
When  to  the  town  the  weary  travellers  get. 
To  a  lord's  house,  as  lordly  as  can  be, 
Made  for  the  use  of  pride  and  luxury, 
They  come  ;  the  gentle  courtier  at  the  door 
Stops,  and  will  hardly  enter  in  before. 
'But  't  is,  sir,  your  command,  and,  being  so, 
I  'm  sworn  t'  obedience,'  and  so  in  they  go. 
Behind  a  hanging  in  a  spacious  room, 
The  richest  work  of  Mortlake's  noble  loom, 
They  wait  a  while,  their  wearied  limbs  to  rest, 
Till  silence  should  invite  them  to  their  feast. 
About  the  hour  that  Cynthia's  silver  light 
Has  touched  the  pale  meridies  of  the  night, 
At  last,  the  various  supper  being  done. 
It  happened  that  the  company  was  gone 
Into  a  room  remote,  servants  and  all, 
To  please  tiieir  noble  fancies  with  a  ball. 
Our  host  leads  forth  his  stranger,  and  does  find 
All  fitted  to  the  bounties  of  his  mind. 
Still  on  the  table  half-filled  dishes  stood. 
And  with  delicious  bits  the  floor  was  strewed. 
The  courteous  mouse  presents  him  with  the  best, 
And  both  with  fat  varieties  are  blest. 
The  industrious  peasant  everywhere  doth  range, 
And  thanks  the  gods  for  his  life's  happy  change. 
Lo!  in  the  midst  of  a  well-freighted  pie 
They  both  at  last  glutted  and  wanton  lie, 
When  —  see  the  sad  reverse  of  prosperous  fate. 
And  what  fierce  storms  on  mortal  glories  wait  — 
With  hideous  noise,  down  the  rude  servants  come; 
Six  dogs  before  ran  barking  into  th'  room. 
The  wretched  gluttons  fly  with  wild  affright, 
And  hate  the  fulness  which  retards  their  flight; 
Our  trembling  peasant  wishes  now  in  vain 
That  rocks  and  mountains  covered  him  again. 
Oh,  how  the  change  of  his  poor  life  he  curst! 
'This,  of  all  lives,'  said  he,  'is  sure  the  worst. 
Give  me  again,  ye  gods,  my  cave  and  wood  ; 
With  peace,  let  tares  and  acorns  be  my  food! '" 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  207 

One  more  little  bit  from  Cowley,  in  a  different  vein, 
and  we  must  leave  him.  This  is  the  ode  to  The  Grass- 
hopper ;  — 

*'  Happy  insectj  what  can  be 
In  liappiness  compared  to  thee? 
Fed  with  nourishment  divine. 
The  dewy  morning's  gentle  wine, 
Nature  waits  upon  thee  still. 
And  thy  verdant  cup  does  fill; 
'T  is  filled  wherever  thou  dost  tread, 
Nature's  self  thy  Ganymede. 
Thou  dost  drink  and  dance  and  sing, 
Happier  than  the  happiest  king; 
All  the  fields  which  thou  dost  see, 
All  the  plants,  belong  to  thee; 
All  that  summer  hours  produce. 
Fertile  made  with  early  juice. 
Man  doth  for  thee  sow  and  plough  ; 
Farmer  he,  and  landlord  thou. 
Thou  dost  innocently  enjoy, 
Nor  does  thy  luxury  destroy. 
The  shepherd  gladly  heareth  thee, 
More  harmonious  than  he. 

To  thee,  of  all  things  upon  earth, 

Life  is  no  longer  than  thy  mirth. 

Happy  insect,  happy  thou. 

Dost  neither  age  nor  winter  know ; 

But  when  thou  'st  drunk  and  danced  and  sung 

Thy  fill  the  flowery  leaves  among 

(Voluptuous  and  wise  withal. 

Epicurean  animal), 

Sated  with  thy  summer  feast, 

Thou  retir'st  to  endless  rest." 

Of  all  the  poets  who  supported  the  Royalist  cause  at  this 
time,  none  did  it  better  service  than  Samuel 
Butler.  He  turned  the  Puritans  into  ridicule  in 
his  poem  of  Iludibras,  one  of  the  wittiest  satires  ever  written, 
—  and  you  know  that  no  weapon  is  more  powerful  against  a 
foe  than  ridicule.  There  were  plenty  of  absurdities  in  the 
Puritan  manners  and  dress  for  ridicule  to  lay  hold  of,  and 
for  all  these  Butler  had  a  quick  eye.  He  took  for  his  hero 
Sir  Hudibras,  a  Presbyterian  knight,  who,  with  his  squire, 


208  J^AMJLJAR    TALKS 

Ralph,  goes  out  to  redress  all  wrongs  and  correct  all 
abuses  in  law  or  religion.  If  you  have  read  the  account 
of  Don  Quixote  setting  out  witli  his  scjuire,  Sancho  Panza, 
on  his  travels,  you  will  be  reminded  of  it  by  Hudibras ; 
but  the  stories  are  not  much  alike,  except  in  the  beginning, 
though  Hudibras,  like  the  Don,  gets  into  all  sorts  of 
scrapes.  He  gets  beaten,  set  in  stocks,  pelted  with  rotten 
eggs  and  all  sorts  of  missiles,  and  is  from  first  to  last  a 
ridiculous  object,  although  he  preserves  a  serene  self- 
conceit,  and  is  unconscious  that  anybody  is  laughing  at 
him.  You  can  imagine  how  much  the  Cavaliers  must  have 
enjoyed  this  picture  of  their  enemy,  the  Puritan. 

Hudibras  is  a  pattern  of  clever  rhyming,  and  few  poets, 
before  or  since,  can  approach  Butler  in  making  difficult 
words  fall  easily  into  rhyme  and  metre ;  as  thus :  — 

"  Whatever  sceptic  could  inquire  for, 
For  every  why  he  had  a  wherefore." 

Or  this;  — 

"Alas,  what  perils  do  environ 
The  man  who  meddles  with  cold  iron." 

The  poem  also  abounds  in  lines  that  have  been  so  much 
quoted  that  we  use  them  almost  without  knowing  where  we 
get  them. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  quote  from  Hudibras,  because  it  is 
difficult  to  give  extracts  from  it ;  but  I  will  quote  a  short 
satire  from  Butler  which  is  a  capital  illlustration  of  his 
merit :  — 

THE   ELEPHANT  IN  THE   MOON. 

**  A  learned  society  of  late, 
The  glory  of  a  foreign  state, 
Agreed,  upon  a  summer's  night. 
To  search  the  moon  by  her  own  light, 
To  take  an  inventory  of  all 
Her  real  estate  and  personal, 
And  make  an  accurate  survey 
Of  all  her  lands,  and  how  they  lay  ; 

"  To  observe  her  country  how  't  was  planted, 
With  what  sh'  abounded  most,  or  wanted, 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE  209 

And  make  the  properest  observations 
Foi  settling  of  new  plantations, 
If  the  society  should  incline 
T'  attempt  so  glorious  a  design: 
This  was  the  purpose  of  their  meeting, 
For  which  they  chose  a  time  as  fitting, — 
When  at  the  full  her  radiant  light. 
And  influence,  too,  were  at  their  height. 
And  now  the  lofty  tube,  the  scale 
With  which  they  heaven  itself  assail, 
Was  mounted  full  against  the  moon, 
And  all  stood  ready  to  fall  on. 
Impatient  who  should  have  the  honor 
To  plant  an  ensign  first  upon  her,  — 

"When  one,  who,  for  his  deep  belief. 
Was  virtuoso  then,  in  chief, 
Approved  the  most  profound  and  wise, 
To  solve  impossibilities, 
Advancing  gravely,  to  apply 
To  th'  optic  glass  his  judging  eye. 
Cried,  '  Strange  I '  then  reinforced  his  sight 
Against  the  moon  with  all  his  might, 
And  bent  his  penetrating  brow 
As  if  he  meant  to  gaze  her  through; 
When  all  the  rest  began  t'  admire. 
And  like  a  train  from  him  took  fire. 
Surprised  with  wonder,  beforehand, 
At  what  they  did  not  understand. 
Cried  out  impatient  to  know  what 
The  matter  was,  they  wondered  at. 

"Quoth  he,  'Th'  inhabitants  o'  th'  moon, 
Who,  when  the  sun  shines  hot  at  noon. 
Do  live  in  cellars  underground. 
Of  eight  miles  deep,  and  eighty  round. 
Which  they  count  towns  and  cities  there, 
Because  their  people's  civiler 
Than  the  rude  peasants  that  are  found 
To  live  upon  the  upper  ground, 
Called  Privolvans,  with  whom  they  are 
Perpetually  in  open  war ; 
And  now  both  armies,  highly  enraged. 
Are  in  a  bloody  fight  engaged  ;  .  .  . 
Look  quickly,  then,  that  every  one 
May  see  the  fight  before  't  is  done.'" 

On  this,  one  philosopher  after  the  other  applies  his  eye 
to  the  telescope  to  see  the  fight  in  the  moon.     They  all 

14 


2IO  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

make  some  discovery  concerning  the  contending  armies 
and  their  positions,  till  at  length  one  of  the  wisest,  after 
he  has  looked  long  and  attentively  through  the  glass,  cries 
out, — 

"  A  stranger  sight  appears 
Than  e'er  was  seen  in  all  the  spheres, 
A  wonder  more  unparalleled 
Than  ever  mortal  tube  beheld,  — 
An  ELEPHANT  from  one  of  those 
Two  mighty  armies  is  broke  loose, 
And  with  the  horror  of  the  fight, 
Appears  amazed  and  in  a  fright ; 
Look  quickly,  lest  the  sight  of  us 
Should  cause  the  startled  beast  to  imboss. 
It  is  a  large  one,  far  more  great 
Than  e'er  was  bred  in  Afric  yet, 
From  which  we  boldly  may  infer 
The  mocn  is  much  the  fruitfuller. 

And  if  the  moon  produce  by  nature 

A  people  of  so  vast  a  stature, 

'T  is  consequent  she  should  bring  forth 

Far  greater  beasts,  too,  than  the  earth 

(As  by  the  best  accounts  appears 

Of  all  our  greatest  discoverers), 

And  that  those  monstrous  creatures  there 

Are  not  such  rarities  as  here." 

The  appearance  of  the  elephant  makes  a  great  sensation 
in  the  society ;  each  member  sees  it  in  a  different  position 
on  the  field  of  battle,  sometimes  on  one  side,  then  shift- 
ing to  the  other.  After  some  consultation,  they  all  agree 
to  draw  up  a  memorial  of  the  transaction,  in  which  a  full 
account  of  the  Elephant  in  the  Moon,  proving  the  ex- 
istence of  gigantic  animals  there,  shall  be  given.  In  the 
mean  time,  — 

"  While  they  were  diverted  all 
In  wording  this  memorial, 
The  footboys,  for  diversion  too, 
As  having  nothing  else  to  do, 
Seeing  the  telescope  at  leisure, 
Turned  virtuosi  for  their  jileasure. 
Began  to  gaze  upon  the  moon. 
As  those  they  waited  on  had  done, 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  211 

With  monkey's  ingenuity, 
Who  love  to  practise  what  they  see, 
When  one,  whose  turn  it  was  to  peep, 
Saw  something  iu  the  engine  creep. 
And  viewing  well,  discovered  more 
Than  all  the  learned  had  done  before; 
Quoth  he  :  'A  little  thing  is  slunk 
Into  the  long,  star-gazing  trunk, 
And  now  is  gotten  down  so  nigh, 
I  have  him  just  against  mine  eye.' 
This  being  overheard  by  one 
Who  was  not  so  far  overgrown 
In  any  virtuous  speculation, 
To  judge  with  mere  imagination. 
Immediately  he  made  a  guess 
At  solving  all  appearances,  .  .  . 
And  found,  upon  a  second  view, 
His  own  hypothesis  most  true  ; 
For  he  had  scarce  applied  his  eye 
To  the  engine,  but  immediately 
He  found  a  nunise  was  gotten  in 
The  hollow  tube,  and  shut  between 
The  two  glass  windows,  in  restraint 
Was  swelled  into  an  elephant, 
And  proved  the  virtuous  occasion 
Of  all  this  learned  dissertation." 

Meanwhile  the  wise  members  of  the  society  had  penned 
their  learned  statement,  and  it  was  already  sealed  and 
signed,  when  the  elephant  was  discovered  to  be  a  mouse. 
A  great  hubbub  of  dispute  arose,  the  larger  part  of  the  body 
refusing  to  believe  that  they  had  been  deceived,  till,  after  a 
long  discussion,  some  one  suggested  that  the  instrument  be 
taken  apart  and  examined. 

"  But  when  they  had  unscrewed  the  glass 
To  find  out  where  th'  imposter  was, 
And  saw  the  mouse  that  by  mishap 
Had  made  the  telescope  a  trap. 
Amazed,  confounded,  and  afflicted 
To  be  so  openly  convicted. 
Immediately  they  get  them  gone 
With  this  discovery  alone, — 
That  those  who  greedily  pursue 
Things  wonderful  instead  of  true, 
That  in  their  speculations  choose 
To  make  discoveries  strange  news,  .  .  . 


212  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Hold  no  truth  worthy  to  be  known 

That  is  not  huge  and  overgrown, 

And  explicate  appearances, 

Not  as  they  are,  but  as  they  please  ; 

In  vain  strive  Nature  to  suborn, 

And  for  their  pains  are  paid  with  scorn.' 


XXXII. 

The  Diaries  of  Samuel  Pepys  and  John  Evelyn. 

IT  is  one  of  the  weaknesses  of  human  nature  to  relish 
gossip ;  to  be  interested  in  details  about  one's  neigh- 
bors; to  want  to  know  what  they  have  been  doing,  what 
sort  of  clothes  they  wear,  and  what  they  had  for  dinner  on 
a  feast-day.  The  student  in  history  and  literature  finds 
just  this  kind  of  relish  in  gossip  about  people  of  the  past. 
He  likes  to  know  all  the  little  facts  about  them,  as  what 
they  wore  and  what  they  ate  for  dinner ;  and  thus  it  is  quite 
natural  that  two  old  books  full  of  gossip  and  small-talk 
about  the  time  of  Charles  II.  have  come  to  be  two  of 
the  most  read  books  written  in  that  age.  These  are  the 
diaries  of  John  Evelyn  and  Samuel  Pepys,  both  of  whom 
kept  a  careful  record  of  their  daily  life  and  all  that  was 
going  on  about  them.  There  is  no  history  of  their  time 
which  gives  such  a  familiar  picture  of  the  life  of  the  day, 
and  the  people  who  figured  in  it,  as  either  of  these  two 
books. 

John  Evelyn  was  a  gentleman  of  leisure  and  fortune,  of 
rather  scholarly  habits,  and  the  author  of  several 
books,  all  dignified  and  learned.  He  had  a  fine 
house  and  a  good  library,  and  his  home  was  resorted  to  by 
many  literary  men  and  men  of  learning,  who  were  his  friends. 
Cowley  the  poet  was  one  of  his  intimates,  and  Jeremy 
Taylor,  with  whom  he  Yq\A  up  many  years  a  correspond- 
ence, was  a  very  dear  friend.  Cowley  and  ICvelyn  sympa- 
thized in  a  taste  for  gardening,  and  the  latter  was  noted  for 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  2  I  3 

the  beauty  of  his  trees  and  plants,  his  fine  hedges  and 
smooth  lawns.  When  Peter  the  Great,  Czar  of  Russia,  was 
in  London,  in  the  last  part  of  the  century,  he  rented 
Evelyn's  house  for  his  royal  quarters ;  and  the  Russian  auto- 
crat used  to  take  a  barbaric  delight  in  demolishing  the  fine 
garden  of  his  landlord.  Among  other  things,  he  used  to 
amuse  himself  by  driving  a  wheelbarrow  through  the  thick 
garden  hedge  which  Evelyn  had  cultivated  with  great 
care. 

Evelyn's  diary,  although  it  is  fiiU  of  details,  is  yet  digni- 
fied, like  himself,  and  makes  us  respect  him  in  all  his  goings 
and  comings. 

Samuel  Pepvs,  who  was  his  exact  contemporary  in  time, 
has  left  a  journal  less  dignified,  but  a  great  deal 

1G32  lld'i 

more  amusmg.     Pepys  was  a  Secretary  of  the 
Navy,  and  was  constantly  in  court  circles,  so  that  he  knew 
all  that  was  said  and  done  there.      He  had  an  excellent 
faculty  for  business,  was  a  good  financier,  and  a  man  of  taste 
in  artistic  matters,  in  books,  music,  and  the  drama.     He 
also  wrote  some  books,  now  almost  forgotten,  and  he  kept 
his  journal  in  a  sort  of  short-hand  of  his  own,  which  was  not 
deciphered  till  long  after  his  death.      Probably  he  never 
would  have  written  with  quite  the  frankness  he  has  shown 
there    if  he  had  known  that  two  hundred  years   later  we 
should  be  gloating  over  his  pages.     But  as  he  believed  it  to 
be  solely  for  his  own  eye,  he  wrote  down  at  night  all  the 
petty  occurrences  of  his  day,  mingled  with  a  great  deal  that 
goes  to  make  up  history.     He  is  a  garrulous,  dehghtful  old 
gossip,  who  tells  the  color  of  his  silk  stockings ;  how  much 
his   new  suit  cost;    when  his  v>'ife  had  a  new  dress    and 
how  she  looked   in  it ;  what  play  he  saw  at  the   theatre, 
and  how  he  liked  it ;  how  King  Charles  behaved  when  he 
was  on  his  most  unkingly  behavior ;  and  all  the  scandal  of 
the  palace  at  \Miitehall.     One  gets  from  this  an  excellent 
idea  of  the  manners  of  the  court  of  Charles  H.,  and  can 
see  what  very  bad  manners  they  were.     In  order  that  you 
may  see  what  a  gossip  Samuel  Pepys  was,  and  how  many 
things,  both  little  and  great,  he  touches  on  in  his  diary,  I 


214  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

am  going  to  quote  most  of  his  entries  for  the  last  month 
of  the  year  1663,  beginning  with  the  last  Sunday  in 
November :  — 

"  Nov.  29///,  —  I^ord's  Day.  —  This  morning  I  put  on  my  best 
black-cloth  suit,  trimmed  with  scarlet  ribbons,  very  neat,  v.'ith 
my  cloak  lined  with  velvet,  and  a  new  beaver,  which  altogether 
is  very  noble,  with  my  black  silk  knit  canons  I  bought  a  month 
ago.  .  .  . 

"30///.  —  .  .  .  At  Whitehall,  Sir  W.  Penn  and  I  met  tiie 
[Duke  of  York]  in  the  matted  gallery,  and  then  lie  discoursed 
with  us  ;  and  by  and  by  my  Lord  Sandwich  came  and  stood 
by  and  talked;  but  it  being  St.  Andrew's  Day,  he  went  to  the 
chapel,  and  we  parted. 

'■'■Dec.  \st. —  At  noon  I  home  to  dinner  with  my  poor  wife, 
with  whom  nowadays  I  enjoy  great  pleasure  in  her  company 
and  learning  of  arithmetic.  After  dinner  I  to  the  Guildhall  to 
hear  a  trial  at  King's  Bench  before  Lord  Chief  Justice  Hyde, 
about  the  insurance  of  a  ship ;  .  .  .  and  it  was  pleasant  to  see 
what  mad  sort  of  testimonies  the  seamen  did  give,  and  could 
not  be  got  to  speak  in  order,  and  then  their  terms  such  as  the 
judge  could  not  understand;  and  to  hear  how  sillily  the  counsel 
and  judge  would  speak  as  to  the  terms  necessary  in  the  matter, 
would  make  one  laugh  ;  and  above  all,  a  Frenclnnan  that  was 
forced  to  speak  in  French  and  took  an  English  oath  he  did  not 
understand,  and  had  an  interpreter  sworn  to  tell  us  what  he 
said,  which  was   the  best  testimony  of  all. 

"  7//i.  —  At  Whitehall  I  hear  and  find  that  there  was  the  last 
night  the  greatest  tide  that  ever  was  remembered  in  England  to 
have  been  in  this  river,  —  all  Whiteliall  having  been  drowned. 
...  To  Whitehall,  and  anon  the  King,  and  Duke  [of  York] 
and  Duchess  came  to  dinner  in  the  vane-room,  where  I  never 
saw  them  before  ;  but  it  seems  since  the  tables  are  done  he 
dines  there  altogether.  The  Queen  is  pretty  well,  and  goes  out 
of  her  chamber  to  her  little  chapel  in  the  house.  The  King  of 
France,  they  say,  is  hiring  of  sixty  sail  of  ships  of  the  Dutch, 
but  it  is  not  said  for  wliat  design. 

"10///.  —  To  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  to  my  bookseller's.  ...  I 
could  not  tell  whether  to  lay  out  my  money  for  books  of  pleas- 
ure, as  plays,  which  my  nature  was  most  earnest  in ;  but  at  last, 
after  seeing  Chaucer,  Dugdale's  History  of  Paul's,  Stow's  Lon- 
don, besides  Shakespeare's,  Jonson's,  and  Beaumont's  plays,  I 
at  last  chose  Doctor  P^illcr's  Worthies,  the  Cabl)ala,  or  Collec- 
tion of  Letters  of  State,  with  another  little  book  or  two,  all  of 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  215 

good  use  or  serious  pleasure  ;  and  Hudibras,  both  parts,  the 
book  now  in  greatest  fashion  for  drollery,  though  I  cannot,  I 
confess,  see  enough  where  the  wit  lies.  My  mind  being  thus 
settled,  I  went  by  link  home,  and  so  to  my  office,  and  to  read  in 
Rushworth,  and  so  home  to  supper  and  to  bed.  Calling  at 
Wotton's,  my  shoemaker's,  to-day,  he  tells  me  that  Sir  H. 
Wright  is  dying ;  and  that  Harris  is  come  to  the  Duke's 
House  again;  and  of  a  rare  play  to  be  acted  this  week  of  Sir 
William  Davenant's,  the  story  of  Harry  the  Eighth,  with  all  his 
wives. 

"  wth.  —  I  to  the  coffee-house.  .  .  .  Then  I  went  and  sat  by 
Mr.  Harrington  and  some  east-country  merchants,  and  talking  of 
the  country  about  Quinsborough  and  thereabouts,  he  told  us 
himself  that  for  fish  none  than  the  poorest  body  will  buy  a  dead 
fish,  but  must  be  alive,  unless  it  be  in  the  winter;  and  then  they 
told  us  the  manner  of  putting  their  nets  into  the  water.  Through 
holes  made  in  the  thick  ice  they  will  spread  a  net  of  half  a  mile 
long ;  and  he  hath  known  a  hundred  and  thirty  and  a  hundred 
and  seventy  barrels  of  fish  taken  out  at  one  draught.  And  then 
the  people  come  with  sledges  upon  the  ice  with  snow  at  the 
bottom,  and  lay  the  fish  in  and  cover  them  with  snow,  and  so 
carry  them  to  market.  And  he  hath  seen  when  the  said  fish 
have  been  frozen  in  the  sledge  so  that  he  hath  taken  a  fish  and 
broke  a-pieces,  so  hard  it  has  been ;  and  yet  the  same  fishes 
taken  out  of  the  snow  and  brought  into  a  hot  room  will  be  alive 
and  leap  up  and  down.  Swallows  are  often  brought  up  in  their 
nets  out  of  the  mud  from  under  water,  hanging  together  to 
some  twig  or  other,  dead,  in  ropes ;  and  brought  to  the  fire,  will 
come  to  life.  Fowl  killed  in  December,  Alderman  Barker  said 
he  did  buy,  and  putting  into  the  box  under  his  sledge,  did  forget 
to  take  them  out  till  April  next,  and  they  then  were  found 
there,  and  were  through  the  frost  as  sweet  and  fresh,  and  eat  as 
well,  as  at  first  killed.  Young  bears  are  there  ;  their  flesh  sold 
in  market  as  ordinarily  as  beef  here,  and  is  excellent  sweet  meat. 
They  tell  us  that  bears  there  never  do  hurt  anybody,  but  fly 
away  from  you,  unless  you  pursue  them  and  set  upon  them  ;  but 
wolves  do  much  mischief.  Mr.  Harrington  told  us  how  they 
do  to  get  so  much  honey  as  they  send  abroad.  They  make  hol- 
low a  great  fir-tree,  leaving  only  a  small  slit  down  straight  in 
one  place,  and  this  they  close  up  again,  only  leave  a  little  hole, 
and  there  the  bees  go  in  and  fill  the  bodies  of  those  trees  as  full 
of  wax  and  honey  as  they  can  hold  ;  and  the  inhabitants  at 
times  go  and  open  the  slit  and  take  what  they  please  without 
killing  the  bees,  and  so  let  them  live  there  still,  and  make  more. . . . 


2l6  FAMIIJAR    TALK'S 

"  The  great  entertainment  and  sport  of  tlie  Duke  of  Corland, 
and  the  princes  thereabout,  is  hunting:,  which  is  not  with  dogs, 
as  we,  but  he  appoints  such  a  day,  and  summons  all  the  country 
people  as  to  a  campagnia,  and  by  several  companies  gives 
every  one  their  circuit,  and  they  agree  upon  a  place  where  the 
toil  is  to  be  set ;  and  so,  making  fires,  every  company  as  they 
go,  they  drive  all  the  wild  beasts,  whether  bears,  wolves,  foxes, 
swine,  and  stags  and  roes  into  the  toil,  and  there  the  great  men 
have  their  stands  in  such  and  such  places,  and  shoot  at  what 
they  have  a  mind  to;  and  that  is  their  hunting.  .  .  .  Against 
a  public  hunting  the  Duke  sends  that  no  wolves  be  killed  by 
the  people.  And  whatever  harm  they  do,  the  Duke  makes  it 
good  to  the  person  that  suffers  it,  as  Mr.  Harrington  instanced 
in  the  house  where  he  lodged,  where  a  wolf  broke  into  a  hog- 
sty  and  bit  three  or  four  great  pieces  off  the  back  of  the  hog 
before  the  house  could  come  to  help  it,  and  the  man  of  the 
house  told  him  that  there  were  three  or  four  wolves  thereabouts 
that  did  get  hurt ;  but  it  was  no  matter,  for  the  Duke  was  to 
make  it  good  to  him,  otherwise  he  would  kill  them. 

"  2IJ-/.  —  I  did  go  to  Shoe  Lane  to  see  a  cock-fight  at  a  new 
pit  there,  — a  spot  I  never  was  at  in  my  life ;  but.  Lord !  to  see 
the  strange  variety  of  people,  from  parliament  men  to  the  poorest 
prentices,  bakers,  brewers,  butchers,  draymen,  and  what  not, 
and  all  these  fellows  one  with  another  in  swearing,  cursing,  and 
betting.  I  soon  had  enough  of  it.  And  yet  I  would  not  but 
have  seen  it  once.  It  is  strange  to  see  how  people  of  this  poor 
rank,  that  look  as  if  they  had  not  bread  enough  to  put  into  their 
mouths,  shall  bet  three  or  four  pounds  at  one  bet  and  lose  it, 
and  yet  bet  as  much  the  next  battle,  so  that  one  of  them  will 
lose  ^lo  or/20  at  a  meeting, 

"28//!. — Walking  through  Whitehall,  I  heard  the  King  was 
gone  to  play  at  tennis,  so  I  down  to  the  new  tennis  court  and 
saw  him  and  Sir  Arthur  Slingsby  play  against  my  Lord  of 
Suffolk  and  my  Lord  Chesterfield.  The  King  beat  three  and 
lost  two  sets  ;  they  all,  and  he  particularly,  playing  well,  I 
thought.  Thence  went  and  spoke  with  the  Duke  of  Albemarle 
about  his  wound  at  Newhall;  but  I  find  him  a  heavy,  dull  man, 
methinks,  by  his  answers  to  me.  The  Duchess  of  York  is 
fallen  sick  of  the  measles. 

"31J/.  — To  dinner,  my  wife  and  I,  a  fine  turkey  and  a  mince 
pie  ;  and  dined  in  state,  poor  wretch,  she  and  I,  and  have  thus 
kept  our  Christmas  together  alone  almost,  having  not  once 
been  out.  ...  I  bless  God  I  do,  after  a  large  expense,  even 
this  month,  find    that   I   am  worth    in  money,  besides  all  my 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE-  2 1  / 

household  stuff,  above  ^800,  whereof  in  my  Lord  Sandwich's 
hand  ^700,  and  the  rest  in  my  hand.  I  do  live  at  my  lodgings 
in  the  Navy  Office,  my  family  being,  besides  my  wife  and  I, 
Jane  Gentleman,  Besse,  our  excellent  good-natured  cook-maid, 
and  Susan,  a  little  girl,  having  neither  man  nor  boy,  nor  like  to 
have  again  a  good  while,  living  now  in  most  perfect  content 
and  quiet  and  very  frugally  also ;  my  health  pretty  good.  .  .  . 
Myself,  blessed  be  God !  in  a  good  way,  and  design  and  reso- 
lution of  sticking  to  my  business  to  get  a  little  money  with, 
doing  the  best  service  I  can  to  the  King  also,  which  God 
continue.     So  ends  the  old  year." 

You  see  from  this  what  a  garrulous  fellow  Pepys  was,  and 
on  how  many  subjects  his  Uiary  touches ;  and  yet,  in  the 
end,  you  cannot  fail  to  feel  a  liking  for  him,  and  to  be 
sure  that,  in  an  age  of  corruption,  he  meant,  as  he  says, 
to  "  do  his  duty,  whatever  come  of  it."  Pepys  kept  his 
journal  only  ten  years,  —  from  1659  to  1669.  The  fine 
short-hand,  or  cipher,  in  which  he  wrote  it  was  so  trying  to 
his  eyesight  that  he  was  then  obliged  to  give  it  up.  Eve- 
lyn's journal  covers  a  much  longer  space  of  time,  —  from 
1641  to  1705.  Both  of  these  diaries,  however,  record  the 
restoration  of  Charles  to  the  throne,  the  Great  Plague  that 
spread  over  London  in  1665,  and  the  Great  Fire  which,  in 
1666,  almost  consumed  the  city;  and  it  is  interesting  to 
compare  the  accounts  of  these   events. 

We  will  read  from  Evelyn  the  account  of  the  Great  Fire, 
whicli  is  a  vivid  bit  of  description,  and  at  some  time  I 
advise  you  to  read  the  corresponding  account  in  Pepys ; 
it  will  give  you  an  excellent  idea  of  the  difference  in  these 
two  characters  :  — ■ 

Evelyn's  diary,  September,  1666. 

"  2d  Sept. — This  fatal  night,  about  ten,  began  the  deplora- 
ble fire  near  Fish  Steet,  in  London. 

"  ■^d  Sept.  —  I  had  public  prayers  at  home.  The  fire  continu- 
ing, after  dinner  I  took  coach  with  my  wife  and  son,  and  went 
to  the  Bankside  in  South wark,  where  we  beheld  that  dismal 
spectacle,  the  whole  city  in  dreadful  flames  near  the  water  side  ; 
all  the  houses  from  the  bridge,  all  Thames  Street,  and  upwards 
towards  Cheapsidc,  down  to  the  Three  Cranes,  were  now  con- 


2l8  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

sumed ;  and  so  returned,  exceeding  astonished  what  would 
become  of  the  rest.  ,  .  .  The  coniiagration  was  so  universal 
and  the  people  so  astonished  that  from  the  beginning,  I  know 
not  by  what  despondency  or  fate,  they  hardly  stirred  to  quench 
jt,  so  that  there  was  nothing  heard  or  seen  but  crying  out  and 
lamentation,  running  about  like  distracted  creatures,  without  at 
all  attempting  to  save  even  their  goods,  such  a  strange  conster- 
nation there  was  upon  them  ;  so  as  it  burned  in  breadth  and  length, 
the  churches,  public  halls,  Exchange,  hospitals,  monuments,  and 
ornaments,  leaping  after  a  prodigious  manner  from  house  to 
house,  and  street  to  street,  at  great  distances  one  from  the 
other.  For  the  heat,  with  a  long  set  of  fair  and  warm  weather, 
had  even  ignited  the  air,  and  prepared  the  materials  to  conceive 
the  fire  which  devoured,  after  an  incredible  manner,  houses, 
furniture,  and  everything.  Here  we  saw  tlie  Thames  covered 
with  goods  floating,  all  the  barges  and  boats  laden  with  what 
some  had  time  and  courage  to  save,  as,  on  the  other  side,  the 
carts,  etc.,  carrying  out  to  the  fields,  which  for  many  miles  were 
strewn  with  movables  of  all  sorts,  and  tents  erecting  to  shelter 
both  people  and  what  goods  they  could  get  away.  Oh,  the 
miserable  and  calamitous  spectacle  !  such  as  haply  the  world 
has  not  seen  since  the  foundation  of  it,  nor  can  be  out-done 
till  the  universal  conflagration  thereof.  All  the  sky  was  of  a 
fiery  aspect,  like  the  top  of  a  burning  oven,  and  the  light  seen 
above  forty  miles  round  about  for  many  nights.  God  grant 
that  mine  eyes  may  never  again  behold  the  like,  who  now  saw 
above  ten  thousand  houses  all  in  one  flame.  The  noise  and  crack- 
ing and  thunder  of  the  impetuous  flames,  the  shrieking  of  women 
and  children,  the  hurry  of  people,  the  fall  of  towers,  houses,  and 
churches,  was  like  a  hideous  storm,  and  the  air  all  about  so  hot 
and  inflamed  that  at  the  last  one  was  not  able  to  approach  it,  so 
that  they  were  forced  to  stand  still  and  let  the  flames  burn  on, 
which  they  did  for  near  two  miles  in  length  and  one  in  breadth. 
The  clouds  of  smoke  also  were  dismal,  and  reached,  upon  com- 
putation, near  fifty  miles  in  length.  Thus  I  left  it  this  after- 
noon burning,  a  resemblance  of  Sodom,  or  the  last  day.  It 
forcibly  called  to  my  mind  that  passage,  noti  cniiii  hie  /ial>ejnus 
stabilem  civitaiem;  the  ruins  resembling  the  picture  of  Troy. 
London  was,  but  is  no  more.     Thus  I  returned. 

"  4///  Sept.  —  The  burning  still  rages,  and  it  is  now  gotten  as 
far  as  the  Inner  Temple.  All  Fleet  Street,  the  Old  Bailey, 
Ludgate  Hill,  Warwick  Lane,  Newgate,  Paul's  Chain,  Watling 
Street  now  flaming,  and  most  of  it  reduced  to  ashes;  the  stones 
of  Paul's  flew  like  grcnadocs,  the  melting  lead  running  down 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  219 

the  streets  in  a  stream,  and  the  very  pavements  glowing  with 
fiery  redness,  so  as  no  horse  nor  man  was  able  to  tread  on 
them,  ...  the  eastern  wind  still  more  impetuously  driving  the 
flames  forward.  Nothing  but  the  Almighty  power  of  God  able 
to  stop  them,  for  vain  was  the  help  of  man." 

On  the  6th,  however,  notwithstanding  Evelyn's  pious  de- 
claration that  nothing  but  the  power  of  God  could  arrest  the 
flames,  the  authorities  began  to  blow  up  some  houses  by  gun- 
powder, and  to  tear  down  others,  in  order  to  make  a  gap  be- 
tween the  portion  unburned  and  that  burning.  This,  Evelyn 
said,  had  been  previously  proposed,  but  had  met  with  oppo- 
sition from  some  aldermen  of  the  City,  whose  houses  would 
have  been  sacrificed  first.  By  these  means,  with  the  favor 
of  an  abating  wind,  the  fire  was  checked  on  the  evening 
of  the  5  th,  after  it  had  burned  three  days.  It  is  interest- 
ing to  note  that  on  the  13th  of  September,  eight  days  after 
the  fire,  Evelyn  showed  King  Charles  the  survey  of  the 
ruins  and  the  plot  for  a  new  city,  '•'  which  extremely  pleased 
the  King,  Queen,  and  the  Duke  of  York." 


XXXIII. 

On  the  Prose  Writers  of  the  Seventeenth  Century  ; 
John  Bunyan  and  his  "  Pilgrim's  Progress." 

THERE  were  not  many  prose  works  produced  in  the 
seventeenth  century  which  are  interesting  to  us  of  the 
present  time.  I  have  before  spoken  of  one  grand  piece 
of  prose,  Millon's  plea  for  a  free  press,  whose  spirited  sen- 
tences ring  like  the  blasts  of  a  bugle  calling  to  freedom. 
This  is  only  a  short  tract,  but  it  is  one  of  the  noblest  pieces 
of  prose  to  be  found  in  literature.  I  should  not  do  justice 
to  the  prose  of  this  century,  however,  if  I  left  out  the  name 
of  IzAAK  Walton,  who  wrote  at  least  one  book  about 
which  we  ought  to  know  something.  He  was  a  shopkeeper 
in  London,  whose  delight  and  almost  sole  recreation  it  was 
to  go  fishing  whenever  he  could  get  away  from  business,  and 


220  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

he  has  made  all  the  little  streams  and  rivers  that  flowed  in 
and  around  London  in  his  lifetime  historical  waters  by  their 
mention  in  his  Complete  Angler.  The  Angler  is  one  of  the 
quaintest,  most  delicious  books  in  English.  It  begins  with 
a  discussion  between  three  friends  who  are  sportsmen,  — 
one  devoted  to  hawking,  the  next  to  hunting,  and  the  last 
to  fishing.  In  the  opening  chapter  each  argues  for  the 
merit  of  his  favorite  sport,  till  the  fisherman's  eloquence 
convinces  the  others,  and  the  hunter  concludes  to  follow 
him  on  his  excursion.  The  two  sportsmen  wander  off  on 
their  day's  sport,  sometimes  lying  along  the  green  banks  of 
the  streams,  sometimes  sheltered  by  the  shade  of  a  honey- 
suckle hedge,  or  by  the  branches  of  a  spreading  oak,  while 
Piscator  (the  fisherman)  gives  his  pupil  instructions  how  to 
fish,  enlivened  with  story  or  occasional  song  or  ballad,  and 
now  and  then  a  good  moral  lesson  drawn  from  his  rich 
stores  of  experience.  At  the  end  of  the  day  they  adjourn 
to  the  nearest  inn,  and  have  their  fish  cooked  for  supper. 
In  a  succession  of  days  like  this  the  Complete  Angler  passes 
the  time.  It  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  books  to  read 
under  a  tree  in  a  summer  afternoon,  even  if  one  does  not 
carry  a  rod,  and  has  no  taste  for  angling.  Walton,  who 
became  a  great  favorite  with  other  literary  men,  and  had 
many  friends  among  the  divines,  wrote  a  number  of  biogra- 
phies, v.hich  are  very  easy  and  beautiful  in  style.  Among 
these  are  the  lives  of  John  Donne  and  George  Herbert,  of 
whom  I  have  already  spoken. 

Many  of  the  most  famous  pieces  of  prose  written  at  this 
time  were  sermons  ;  for  this  was  a  century  which  numbered 
many  great  preachers,  and  some  of  the  most  famous  English 
divines  flourished  in  the  reigns  of  Charles  I.  and  Charles  II. 
South,  Stilungfleet,  Barrow,  Tii.lotson,  all  were  distin- 
guished and  learned  preachers.  So  were  Richard  Baxter, 
who  wrote  those  celebrated  religious  books,  The  Saints'  Rest 
and  Call  to  the  Unconverted ;  Bishop  Burnet,  who  was  not 
only  a  clergyman,  but  an  historian,  and  wrote  a  history  of  his 
own  times ;  Thomas  Fuller,  the  author  of  the  Worthies  of 
England,  —  a  series  of  short  biographies  of  great  men,  which 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  221 

is  full  of  anecdote  and  humor,  and  a  charming  book  to  read  ; 
and  last  and  best  of  all  is  Jeremy  Taylor,  who  has  been 
called  the  "  Shakespeare  of  divines,"  because  his  sermons 
have  the  imagery,  the  grandeur,  and  the  music  of  a  poem. 
All  these  preachers,  except  Baxter,  were  of  the  Established 
Church  of  England,  and  all  were  men  of  learning  and  high 
in  the  respect  of  their  contemporaries.  But  one  of  the 
greatest  books  of  the  century  was  vmtten  by  a  Dissenting 
minister,  a  plain,  unlearned  man,  very  difterent  from  these 
dignitaries  of  the  Church.  His  name  is  John  Bunyan,  and 
his  great  work  is  the  Pilgrim^ s  Progress. 

John  Bunyan  wrote  a  great  many  books  and  sermons, 
but  the  Pilgrim'' s  Progress  is  the  only  one  which 
has  been  much  read  since  his  death.  There  are 
a  few  books  that  go  straight  to  the  heart  of  the  world,  and 
never  lose  their  place  in  it.  They  may  be  ever  so  simple 
in  language,  ever  so  rude  in  style,  but  they  bear  that  charm 
which  puts  them  among  the  volumes  that  grace  the  book- 
shelves of  the  scholar,  or  lie,  well-worn  and  shabby,  on  the 
table  of  the  peasant,  beside  the  great  Bible.  John  Bunyan 
wrote  such  a  book  in  the  intervals  of  his  preaching  and 
labor,  while  he  Vv^as  part  of  the  time  an  inmate  of  a  jail 
where  he  was  shut  up  for  his  obstinacy  in  proclaiming  the 
gospel  as  it  seemed  right  to  him.  He  had  been  bred  to 
the  trade  of  a  tinker,  and  accuses  himself  of  being  very 
wicked  in  his  youth,  although  a  habit  of  swearing  and  a 
great  love  of  ringing  the  church  chimes  are  among  the 
worst  faults  of  which  he  accuses  himself.  His  strict  Puri- 
tanism caused  him  to  think  his  love  for  ringing  the  bells  a 
temptation  of  the  devil,  and  after  his  conversion  he  was  for 
a  long  time  tortured  by  doubts  of  his  salvation.  Among 
other  things,  he  fancied  he  was  tempted,  like  Judas  Isca- 
riot,  to  betray  his  Lord^  and  heard  the  words,  "  Sell  him, 
sell  him,  sell  him,"  ringing  like  chimes  of  bells  in  his  ears, 
day  and  night.  To  relieve  this  morbid  state  of  conscience, 
he  took  to  preaching,  and  his  plain  and  homely  eloquence 
was  drawing  many  hearers,  when  he  v/as  arrested  for  un- 
lawfully proclaiming  the  gospel,  and  thrown  into  jail  in  his 


222  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

native  town  of  Bedford.  Here  he  used  to  join  his  wife  and 
children  in  the  weaving  of  tagged  lacings  to  help  in  their 
scanty  living,  and  here  the  idea  came  to  him  of  writing  the 
Pilgrim's  Progress.  The  wretched  old  jail  in  Bedford  is 
consecrated  as  the  place  whence  the  Pilgrim  set  out  on  that 
journey  which  has  never  ceased  from  that  time  to  interest 
childhood  and  age. 

More  than  twelve  years  Bunyan  was  a  prisoner,  although 
his  simple  goodness  so  won  upon  the  heart  of  his  jailer  that 
after  a  time  he  allowed  him  to  leave  the  prison  and  go  out 
to  preach  on  Sundays,  returning  at  night  to  his  jail. 

The  Pilgrim's  Progress  is  an  allegory,  and  ought  to  be 
read  for  the  first  time  when  one  is  a  child,  and  can  enjoy  the 
story  without  drawback.  Almost  all  young  people  have  a 
prejudice  against  a  tale  as  soon  as  they  find  it  is  an  allegory ; 
and  there  is  some  justice  in  the  feeling,  for,  as  a  rule,  when 
the  mind  is  diverted  from  a  story  to  guess  at  its  hidden 
meaning  and  keep  track  of  the  undercurrent  that  flows 
through  the  book,  the  effect  is  tiresome,  and  often  takes 
away  all  our  interest. 

An  allegorical  story  or  poem,  therefore,  must  possess 
great  merit  in  order  to  outlive  its  age.  Spenser's  Fairy 
Queen  is  an  allegory,  yet  very  few  persons  think  of  that 
nowadays  in  reading  it ;  they  find  in  it  a  great  imaginative 
poem,  whose  characters  have  an  existence  of  their  own, 
without  reference  to  the  abstract  virtues  they  personify,  or 
the  historical  characters  idealized  in  the  lines. 

The  Pilgrim's  Progress  also  is  a  story  whose  incidents 
and  characters  take  hold  of  our  interest  without  reference 
to  the  moral  the  author  intended  to  convey.  A  man  sets 
out  on  a  perilous  journey ;  at  the  outset  he  sticks  fast  in  a 
slough,  from  which  he  escapes  with  difficulty;  he  arrives  at 
a  beautiful  house  where  three  gracious  ladies  advise  and 
comfort  him  ;  he  fights  with  a  terrible  enemy  and  gets  the 
better  of  him  ;  he  is  thrown  into  prison  ;  he  falls  into  the 
clutches  of  a  giant ;  and  finally  he  crosses  a  swift  and 
dangerous  river  into  a  glorious  city,  which  shines  like  an 
enchanted  kingdom  in  the  Arabian  tales.     All  these  events 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  223 

and  the  characters  that  figure  in  them  are  as  vivid  as  if  there 
was  no  under-meaning  intended  to  be  conveyed.  The 
battle  between  the  hero  and  Apollyon  in  the  dark  valley 
is  just  as  honest  and  fair  a  battle  as  was  ever  told  in  any 
tale,  and  when  we  are  reading  it  our  interest  in  the  result  is 
not  harmed  by  the  fact  that  it  was  meant  for  a  contest  be- 
tween Good  and  Evil,  and  that  we  may  be  sure  beforehand 
that  good  will  be  victorious.  An  English  critic  says,  in 
speaking  of  this  prejudice  against  allegories,  "  Some  people 
are  as  afraid  of  the  allegory  as  if  they  thought  it  would 
bite  them.  But  if  they  do  not  meddle  with  the  allegory, 
the  allegory  will  not  meddle  with  them."  The  most  devoted 
reader  of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress  I  ever  knew  was  a  little 
girl  of  six,  who  never  meddled  with  the  allegory,  but  took 
it  all  as  a  delightful  story,  in  which  Giant  Despair  was  as 
real  a  giant  as  those  in  Jack  the  Giant-Killer  or  the  other 
famous  Jack  of  the  Bean-stalk. 

One  great  merit  of  John  Bunyan  is  that  he  wrote  a 
homely,  wholesome  style,  full  of  strength  and  naturalness ; 
and  the  boy  or  girl  who  begins  early  to  read  such  English 
as  this,  taking  later  the  noble  works  of  our  great  poets, 
will  be  able  to  use  our  language,  either  in  writing  or  speak- 
ing, with  a  power  which  can  never  be  acquired  by  those 
who  only  feed  their  minds  with  the  flimsy  stories  in  modern 
newspapers,  and  magazines  written  solely  for  young  people. 
The  passage  I  select  to  read  is  that  in  which  Christian,  the 
Pilgrim,  and  his  friend.  Hopeful,  who  is  travelling  with  him, 
have  lost  their  way  on  the  journey  by  turning  into  some 
by-path  which  has  taken  them  off  the  road,  and  are  over- 
taken by  the  night  in  their  efforts  to  find  the  right  way 
again  :  — 

"  Wherefore  at  last,  lighting  under  a  little  shelter,  they  sat 
down  there  till  the  day  brake  :  but  being  weary,  they  fell  asleep. 
Now  there  was,  not  far  from  the  place  where  they  lay,  a  castle 
called  Doubting  Castle,  the  owner  whereof  was  Giant  Despair; 
and  it  was  in  his  grounds  they  now  were  sleeping;  wherefore, 
he,  getting  up  in  the  morning  early  and  walking  up  and  down  in 
his  fields,  caught  Christian  and  Hopeful  asleep  in  his  grounds. 
Then  with  a  grim  and  a  surly  voice  he  bid  them  awake,  and 


224  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

asked  them  whence  they  were,  and  what  they,  did  in  his 
grounds.  They  told  him  they  were  pilgrims,  and  that  they 
had  lost  their  way.  Then  said  the  Giant,  'You  have  this  night 
trespassed  on  me  by  trampling  in  and  lying  on  my  grounds,  and 
therefore  you  must  go  along  with  me.'  So  they  were  forced  to 
go,  because  he  was  stronger  than  they.  They  also  had  but  little 
to  say,  for  they  knew  themselves  in  a  fault.  Tlie  Giant  there- 
fore drove  them  before  him  and  put  them  into  his  castle  into  a 
very  dark  dungeon,  nasty  and  stinking  to  the  spirits  of  these 
two  men.  Here,  then,  they  lay  from  Wednesday  morning  till 
Saturday  night,  without  one  bit  of  bread,  or  drop  of  drink,  or 
light,  or  any  to  ask  how  they  did ;  they  were,  therefore,  here  in 
evil  case,  and  were  far  from  friends  or  acquaintance.  Now, 
in  this  place  Christian  had  double  sorrow,  because  it  was 
through  his  unadvised  counsel  that  they  were  brought  into  this 
distress. 

"  Now,  Giant  Despair  had  a  wife,  and  her  name  was  Diffi- 
dence ;  so  when  he  was  gone  to  bed  he  told  his  wife  what  he 
had  done,  to  wit,  that  he  had  taken  a  couple  of  prisoners  and 
cast  them  into  his  dungeon  for  trespassing  on  his  grounds. 
Then  he  asked  her,  also,  what  he  had  best  further  do  to  them. 
She  asked  what  they  were,  whence  they  came,  and  whither 
they  were  bound;  and  he  told  her.  Then  she  counselled  him 
that  when  he  arose  in  the  morning  he  should  beat  them  without 
mercy.  So  when  he  arose  he  getteth  him  a  grievous  crab-tree 
cudgel,  and  goes  down  into  the  dungeon  to  them,  and  there  first 
falls  to  rating  of  them  as  if  they  were  dogs,  although  they  never 
gave  him  a  word  of  distaste.  Then  he  fell  upon  them  and  beat 
them  fearfully,  in  such  sort  that  they  were  not  able  to  help 
themselves  or  to  turn  them  upon  the  floor.  This  done,  he 
withdraws,  and  leaves  them  there  to  condole  their  misery  and 
to  mourn  under  their  distress,  so  that  all  day  they  spent  their 
time  in  nothing  but  sighs  and  bitter  lamentations.  The  next 
night  she,  talking  with  her  husband  further  about  them,  and 
understanding  that  they  were  yet  alive,  did  advise  him  to 
counsel  them  to  make  away  with  themselves.  So  when  morn- 
ing was  come,  he  goes  to  them  in  a  surly  manner,  as  before, 
and  perceiving  them  to  be  very  sore  with  the  stripes  that  he 
had  given  them  the  day  before,  he  told  them  that  since  they 
were  never  like  to  come  out  of  that  place,  their  only  way  would 
be  forthwith  to  make  an  end  of  themselves,  either  with  knife, 
halter,  or  poison;  'For  why,'  said  he,  'should  you  choose  to 
live,  seeing  it  is  attended  with  so  much  bitterness.'"  I5ut  they 
desired  him  to  let  them  go.     With  that  he  looked  ugly  upon 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  225 

them,  and  rushing  to  them,  had  doubtless  made  an  end  of  them 
himself,  but  that  he  fell  into  one  of  his  fits  (for  he  sometimes 
in  sunshiny  weather  fell  into  fits),  and  lost,  for  a  time,  the  use 
of  his  hands;  wherefore^he  withdrew,  and  left  them  as  before, 
to  consider  what  to  do." 

Then  the  prisoners  consult  together  what  is  best  to  do. 
Christian  is  almost  of  the  opinion  that  they  would  better 
die  at  once ;  but  Hopeful  sustains  him,  and  persuades  him 
to  endure  a  little  longer, 

"With  these  words  did  Hopeful,  at  present,  moderate  the 
mind  of  his  brother;  so  they  continued  together  in  the  dark 
that  day  in  their  sad  and  doleful  condition. 

"  Well,  towards  evening  the  Giant  goes  down  into  the  dun- 
geon again  to  see  if  his  prisoners  had  taken  his  counsel.  But 
when  he  came  there  he  found  them  alive ;  and,  truly,  alive  was 
all:  for  now,  what  for  want  of  bread  and  water,  and  by  reason 
of  the  wounds  they  received  when  he  beat  them,  they  could  do 
little  but  breathe.  But  I  say  he  found  them  alive  ;  at  which  he 
fell  into  a  grievous  rage,  and  told  them  that,  seeing  they  had 
disobeyed  his  counsel,  it  would  be  worse  with  them  than  if  they 
had  never  been  born. 

"At  this  they  trembled  greatly,  and  I  think  that  Christian 
fell  into  a  swoon ;  but  coming  a  little  to  himself  again,  they  re- 
newed their  discourse  about  the  Giant's  counsel,  and  whether 
they  had  best  take  it  or  no.  Now  Christian  again  seemed  for 
doing  it ;  but  Hopeful  made  reply  as  followeth  :  — 

" '  My  brother,'  said  Hopeful,  '  rememberest  thou  not  how 
valiant  thou  hast  been  heretofore  ?  Apollyon  could  not  crush 
thee,  nor  could  all  thou  didst  hear  or  see  or  feel  in  the  Valley 
of  the  Shadow  of  Death.  What  hardship,  terror,  and  amaze- 
ment hast  thou  already  gone  through,  and  art  thou  now  nothing 
but  fears  ?  Thou  seest  that  I  am  in  the  dungeon  with  thee,  a 
far  weaker  man  by  nature  than  thou  art.  Also,  this  Giant  hath 
wounded  me  as  well  as  thee,  and  hath  also  cut  off  the  bread 
and  water  from  my  mouth,  and  with  thee  I  mourn  without  the 
light.  But  let  us  exercise  a  little  more  patience.  Remember 
how  thou  playedst  the  man  at  Vanity  Fair,  and  wast  neither 
afraid  of  the  chain  nor  cage,  nor  yet  of  bloody  death  ;  where- 
fore, let  us,  at  least  to  avoid  the  shame  that  it  becomes  not  a 
Christian  to  be  found  in,  bear  up  with  patience  as  well  as  we 
can.' 

"  Now,  night  being  come  again,  and  the  Giant  and  his  wife 

IS 


226  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

being  in  bed,  slie  asked  him  concerning  the  prisoners,  and  if 
they  had  taken  liis  counsel;  to  which  he  replied:  '  They  are 
sturdy  rogues ;  they  choose  rather  to  bear  all  hardships  than 
make  away  with  themselves.' 

"'Take  them  into  the  castleyard  to-morrow,  and  show  them 
the  bones  and  skulls  of  those  thou  hast  already  despatched,  and 
make  them  believe,  ere  a  week  comes  to  an  end,  thou  wilt  tear 
them  in  pieces,  as  thou  hast  done  their  fellows  before  them.' 

"  So  when  the  morning  was  come,  the  Giant  goes  to  them 
again,  and  takes  them  into  the  castle-yard,  and  shows  them  as 
his  wife  had  bidden  him. 

"  '  These,'  said  he,  '  were  pilgrims,  as  you  are,  once,  and  they 
trespassed  on  my  grounds,  as  you  have  done ;  and  when  I 
thought  fit  I  tore  them  in  pieces,  and  so  within  ten  days  I 
will  do  you ;  go  get  you  down  to  your  den  again.' 

"  And  with  that  he  beat  them  all  the  way  thither.  They  lay, 
therefore,  all  day  on  Saturday  in  a  lamentable  case  as  before. 
Now,  when  night  was  come,  and  when  Mrs.  Diffidence  and  her 
husband  the  Giant  were  got  to  bed,  they  began  to  renew  their 
discourse  of  their  prisoners,  and  withal  the  old  Giant  wondered 
that  he  could  neither  by  his  blows  nor  counsels  bring  them  to 
an  end.     And  with  that  his  wife  replied,  — 

"  '  I  fear,'  said  she,  '  that  they  live  in  hopes  that  some  will 
come  to  relieve  them,  or  that  they  have  picklocks  about  them, 
by  the  means  of  which  they  hope  to  escape.' 

"  '  Sayest  thou  so,  my  dear  ? '  said  the  giant ;  '  I  will  therefore 
search  them  in  the  morning.'  .   .  . 

"  Now,  a  little  before  it  was  day,  good  Christian,  as  one  half 
amazed,  brake  out  into  this  passionate  speech  :  '  What  a  fool,' 
quoth  he,  '  am  I,  thus  to  lie  in  this  stinking  dungeon,  when  I 
may  as  well  walk  at  liberty.  I  have  a  key  in  my  bosom,  called 
Promise,  that  will,  I  am  persuaded,  open  any  lock  in  Doubting 
Castle.' 

"Then  said  Hopeful,  'That  is  good  news,  good  brother; 
pluck  it  out  of  thy  bosom,  and  try.' 

"  Then  Christian  pulled  it  out  of  his  bosom  and  began  to  try 
at  the  dungeon  door,  whose  bolt,  as  he  turned  the  key,  gave 
back,  and  the  door  flew  open  with  ease,  and  Christian  and 
Hopeful  both  came  out.  Then  he  went  to  the  outward  door 
that  leads  into  the  castle  yard,  and  with  his  key  opened  that 
door  also.  After  that,  he  went  to  the  iron  gate,  for  that  must 
be  opened  too;  but  that  lock  went  desperately  hard,  yet  the  key 
did  open  it.  Then  they  thrust  open  the  gate  to  make  their 
escape  with  speed;  but  that  gate,  as  it  opened,  made  such  a 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERAl^URE.  22/ 

creaking  that  it  waked  Giant  Despair,  who,  hastily  rising  to 
pursue  his  prisoners,  felt  his  limbs  to  fail,  for  his  fits  took  him 
again,  so  that  he  could  by  no  means  go  after  them.  Then  they 
went  on  and  came  to  the  King's  highway,  and  so  were  safe, 
because  they  were  out  of  his  jurisdiction. 

",And  when  they  were  gone  over  the  stile,  they  began  to  con- 
trive with  themselves  what  they  should  do  at  that  stile  to  pre- 
vent those  that  should  come  after  them  from  falling  into  the 
hands  of  Giant  Despair,  So  they  consented  to  erect  there  a 
pillar,  and  to  engrave  upon  the  side  thereof  a  sentence  ;  '  Over 
this  stile  is  the  way  to  Doubting  Castle,  which  is  kept  by  Giant 
Despair,  who  despiseth  the  King  of  the  celestial  country,  and 
seeks  to  destroy  his  holy  pilgrims.'  Many,  therefore,  that 
followed  after,  read  what  was  written,  and  escaped  the  danger. 
This  done,  they  sang  as  follows  :  — 

"  '  Out  of  the  way  we  went,  and  then  we  found 
What  't  was  to  tread  upon  forbidden  ground  ; 
And  let  them  that  come  after,  have  a  care, 
Lest  heedlessness  makes  them  as  we,  to  fare, 
Lest  they,  for  trespassing  his  prisoners  are, 
Whose  castle  's  Doubting,  and  whose  name  "s  Despair.'  " 

I  cannot  better  end  my  praise  of  this  book,  for  which  I 
have  a  profound  love  and  reverence,  founded  on  long  and 
very  early  acquaintance,  than  by  quoting  a  few  words  from 
Macaulay's  essay  on  it :  — 

"  There  is  no  book  in  our  literature  on  which  we  would  so 
readily  stake  the  fame  of  the  old  unpolluted  English  language ; 
no  book  which  shows  how  rich  that  language  is  in  its  own 
proper  wealth,  and  how  little  it  has  been  improved  by  all  it  has 
borrowed.  Cowper  said,  forty  or  fifty  years  ago,  that  he  dared 
not  name  John  Bunyan  in  his  verse,  for  fear  of  moving  a  sneer. 
.  .  .  We  live  in  better  days,  and  we  are  not  afraid  to  say  that 
although  there  were  many  clever  men  in  England  during  the 
latter  half  of  the  seventeenth  century,  there  were  only  two  great 
creative  minds :  one  of  those  minds  produced  Paradise  Lost, 
and  the  other,  Pilgrinis  Progress^ 


228  FAMILIAR    TALKS 


XXXIV. 


On  the  Drama  of  the  Res i oration;  John  Dryden 
AND  HIS  Contemporaries. 

THERE  was  a  great  falling  off  in  dramatic  poetry  after 
Shakespeare's  death,  and  that  branch  of  literature 
seemed  to  decay  as  quickly  as  it  had  grown  and  blossomed. 
The  Puritans,  while  they  were  in  power,  opposed  the  stage 
and  all  work  written  for  it.  They  were  inclined  to  think 
life  too  serious  a  business  for  amusement  of  any  sort.  This 
gloom  and  severity  helped  to  cause  the  great  reaction  which 
followed  when  the  Royalists  came  back  to  the  control  of 
affairs.  As  soon  as  Charles  II.  was  proclaimed  king,  a  dra- 
matic merry-making  began.  Sir  ^^Tlliam  Davenant,  who 
had  been  poet-laureate  to  Charles  I.,  took  the  management 
of  a  theatre,  and  imported  such  fine  scenery  from  France 
as  had  never  before  graced  the  bare  boards  of  the  English 
stage.  The  witty  men  of  the  time,  many  of  them  nobles  of 
Charles's  court,  began  to  write  plays.  Everybody  thronged 
to  the  theatres,  among  the  rest  Samuel  Pepys,  who  in 
January,  1661,  writes  in  his  diary:  "To  the  theatre,  where 
was  acted  Beggar's  Bush,  it  being  very  well  done,  and  here 
the  first  time  that  ever  I  saw  women  come  upon  the  stage." 
Up  to  this  date  all  the  women's  parts  had  been  acted  by 
men  or  boys,  and  one  of  the  innovations  of  this  new  revival 
of  the  drama  was  to  introduce  actresses. 

Some  of  the  poets  I  have  before  mentioned  among  the 
lyric  poets  were  play-writers.  Sir  John  Suckling,  Abraham 
Cowley,  Sir  Charles  Sedley,  all  were  successful  in  that  line. 
In  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  the  dramatists  were  nearly  as 
plenty  as  they  had  been  in  the  Elizabethan  age.  Many  of 
their  works,  which  are  now  worthless  as  literature,  are 
written  in  an  easy,  natural  dialogue,  that  flows  from  the 
pen  just  as  it  falls  from  the  lips;  but  one  finds  in  these 
plays  few  touches  of  nobleness,  or  the  indication  of  any 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  229 

good  purpose  in  the  writing.  The  worst  vices  of  the  disso- 
lute age  are  faithfully  reflected  in  these  comedies.  Some  of 
the  more  marked  names  among  the  dramatists  are  Dave- 
nant,  Otway,  Lee,  Shadwell,  Etherege,  and  Wycherley. 

Davenant  belonged  both  to  the  time  of  Charles  I.  and 
Charles  II.  He  was  a  fertile  writer  of  plays  of  the  school 
founded  in  the  Elizabethan  age,  and  was  an  imitator  of  the 
great  Shakespeare.  Otway  wrote  one  or  two  plays  showing 
a  good  deal  of  power,  and  is  interesting  from  his  sad  fate. 
He  died  of  starvation,  after  a  life  of  struggle  and  poverty. 
Wycherley  was  a  gifted  writer  of  comedy,  sparkling  with 
wit  and  full  of  invention.  If  he  had  lived  in  an  age  of 
better  manners  and  morals,  his  comedies  might  have  de- 
lighted us  at  the  present  day ;  but  as  they  held  the  mirror 
up  to  the  vices  of  his  own  time,  and  reflected  manners  that 
are  disgusting  to  a  purer  age,  his  works  are  almost  entirely 
unknown. 

The  greatest  dramatist  who  appeared  after  the  great  line 
of  Elizabethan  dramatists  had  vanished  was  John 
Dryden.     And  it  is  not  only  as  a  dramatic  poet 
that  he  holds  a  place  in  literature.     He  wrote  odes,  lyrics, 
satires,  epics,  poetry  in  almost  every  vein,  and  besides  this, 
vigorous  and  manly  prose. 

Dryden  holds  a  high  position  in  the  history  of  literature, 
and  had  an  influence  over  his  own  age  which  lasted  long 
after  his  death.  He  helped  to  form  a  new  taste  in  poetry, 
and  to  fix  rules  for  poetic  art  which  were  more  exact  and 
elegant  than  had  been  used  before.  What  we  are  most 
impressed  with  in  the  great  Elizabethan  poets  is  the  spon- 
taneity of  their  genius ;  we  feel  that  they  were  poets  born 
rather  than  made.  In  Dryden's  time  there  was  a  marked 
change  :  poetry  began  to  be  considered  an  art  more  than 
ever  before ;  rules  were  laid  down,  criticism  on  form  was 
more  severe.  This  was  partly  through  the  influence  of 
French  taste,  which  had  been  exerted  over  the  new  school 
of  writers  who  sprang  up  in  the  court  of  Charles  II.,  many 
of  whom  had  lived  in  France  while  that  prince  was  exiled 
from  his  country.     The  French  style  was  an  artificial,  highly 


230  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

polished  style  :  in  poetry,  especially  the  drama,  the  French 
had  never  struck  out  into  original  methods,  as  the  English  had 
done.  Their  plays  had  been  modelled  on  the  great  drama 
of  the  Greeks,  made  according  to  certain  fixed  rules  of  art. 
All  French  classic  poetry  followed  the  same  line-and-plum- 
met  mode  of  measure  as  their  drama ;  its  rules  were  laid  out 
as  if  verse- making  were  a  craft  as  exact  in  its  methods  as 
shoemaking.  This  style  now  became  the  fashion  in  Eng- 
land ;  and  you  will  perceive  that  there  are  fashions  in  litera- 
ture as  well  as  fashions  in  dress.  Dryden  was  a  man  of 
genius,  but  of  the  sort  of  genius  which  would  be  likely  to 
adapt  itself  to  the  taste  of  his  age,  not,  like  Milton  or 
Shakespeare,  a  man  who  would  compel  taste  to  follow  him. 
And  Dryden  was  also  a  man  of  painstaking  and  thorough 
industry,  who,  having  chosen  any  style,  would  perfect  it  and 
refine  it  to  the  uttermost.  He  accordingly  set  to  work  to 
refine  and  polish  his  verse  as  no  English  poet  had  done  be- 
fore. Consequently  his  poetry  was  almost  artificially  perfect, 
although  I  think  we  shall  agree  that  he  never  touches  the 
heart  as  Shakespeare  or  Milton  does,  or  seizes  on  the  imagi- 
nation as  Spenser  does. 

Unlike  Milton,  Dryden  believed  in  rhyme.  He  said 
Milton  did  not  rhyme  in  Paradise  Lost  because  he  could 
not  write  smooth  and  elegant  rhymes,  and  Dryden  actually 
made  a  rhyming  opera  out  of  Paradise  Lost,  fancying 
it  an  improvement  on  Milton's  mighty  verse.  This  is  as 
bad  as  if  he  had  taken  the  sonatas  of  Beethoven  and  set 
them  to  be  ground  out  by  a  travelling  beggar  on  a  hand- 
organ.  He  had  a  great  fancy  for  altering  the  older 
poets.  He  put  some  of  Chaucer's  Tales  into  his  more 
fashionable  verse,  and  re-wrote  Shakespeare's  Tempest, 
adding  new  characters  and  scenes  to  this  grand  play.  It 
is  difficult  to  forgive  any  poet  such  stupidity.  Yet,  in  spite 
of  this,  Dryden  was  so  great  a  master  that  he  compels  ad- 
miration, and  he  was  also  great  enough  to  recognize  the 
grandeur  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton  when  the  age  around 
him  was  blind  to  their  superiority. 

Dryden  wrote  such  a  number  of  plays  (twenty-seven  in  all) 


ON'  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  23  I 

that  I  shall  not  attempt  to  mention  them.  I  like  best  All 
for  Love,  Do?i  Sebastian,  The  Indian  Queeii,  and  The 
Indian  Emperor.  All  for  Love  is  a  play  on  the  same 
subject  as  Shakespeare's  Antony  and  Cleopatra.  Dryden 
says  of  this  play  that  it  is  the  one  of  his  works  which  he 
wrote  purely  to  please  himself;  the  rest  were  made  to 
please  the  people.  This  is  not  written  in  rhyme,  as  so 
many  of  his  dramatic  works  are,  and  to  my  taste  is  the 
finest  of  all  his  plays.  I  therefore  select  a  scene  from 
this  as  the  best  specimen  of  his  dramatic  style.  You  can 
contrast  it,  for  criticism,  with  one  of  Shakespeare's  scenes 
from  Antony  and  Cleopatra.  Antony  has  just  been  told  of 
Cleopatra's  death,  and  is  left  with  his  faithful  friend  Venti- 
dius,  one  of  the  generals  of  his  army  :  — 

Antony.  Oh,  Ventidius, 

What  should  I  fight  for  now  ?  my  queen  is  dead. 
I  was  but  great  for  her ;  my  power,  my  empire, 
Were  but  my  merchandise  to  buy  her  love. 
And  conquered  kings,  my  factors.     Now  she  's  dead, 
Let  Cassar  take  the  world. 
An  empty  circle,  since  the  jewel 's  gone 
Which  made  it  worth  my  strife.     My  being's  nauseous, 
For  all  the  bribes  of  life  are  gone  away. 

Ventidius.     Would  you  be  taken  ? 

Ant.  Yes,  I  would  be  taken, 

And  as  a  Roman  ought,  —  dead,  my  Ventidius  ; 
For  I  '11  convey  my  soul  from  Caesar's  reach 
And  lay  down  life  myself.     'T  is  time  the  world 
Should  have  a  lord,  and  know  whom  to  obey. 
We  two  have  kept  its  homage  in  suspense. 
And  bent  the  globe,  on  whose  each  side  we  trod. 
Till  it  was  dented  inwards.     Let  him  walk 
Alone  upon  it.     I  'm  weary  of  my  part ; 
My  torch  is  out,  and  the  world  stands  before  me 
Like  a  black  desert  at  the  approach  of  night. 
I  '11  lay  me  down  and  stray  no  further  on. 

Vent.     I  could  be  grieved, 
But  that  I  '11  not  outlive  you  ;  choose  your  death, 
For  I  have  seen  him  in  such  various  shapes 

I  care  not  which  I  take.     I  'm  only  troubled 
The  life  I  bear  is  worn  to  such  a  rag 
'T  is  scarce  worth  giving.     I  could  wish,  indeed. 
We  threw  it  from  us  with  a  better  grace; 
That,  like  two  lions  taken  in  the  toils, 


232  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

We  might  at  last  thrust  out  our  paws  and  wound 
The  hunters  that  enclose  us. 

Antony .  I  have  thought  on  it,  — 

Ventidius,  you  must  live. 

Vent.  I  must  not,  sir. 

Ant.     Wilt  thou  not  live,  to  speak  some  good  of  me, 
To  stand  by  my  fair  fame,  and  guard  the  approaches 
From  the  ill  tongues  of  men  ? 

Vc7it.  Who  shall  guard  mine 

For  living  after  you  ? 

Ant.  Say  I  command  it. 

Vent.     If  we  die  well,  our  deaths  will  speak  themselves, 
And  need  no  living  witness 

A)it.  Thou  hast  loved  me, 

And  fain  I  would  reward  thee  ;  I  must  die. 
Kill  me  !  and  take  the  merit  of  my  death 
To  make  thee  friends  with  Caesar. 

Vent.  Thank  your  kindness ; 

You  said  I  loved  you,  and  in  recompense 
You  bid  me  turn  a  traitor.     Did  I  think 
You  would  have  used  me  thus  ?    That  I  should  die 
With  a  hard  thought  of  you  ? 

Ant.  Forgive  me,  Roman. 

Since  I  have  heard  of  Cleopatra's  death, 
My  reason  bears  no  rule  upon  my  tongue, 
But  lets  my  thoughts  break  all  at  random  out. 
I  've  thought  belter.     Do  not  deny  me  twice. 

Vent.     By  Heaven  !  I  will  not, 
Let  it  not  be  to  outlive  you. 

Ant.  Kill  me  first. 

And  then  die  thou  :  for  't  is  but  just  thou  serve 
Thy  friend  before  thyself. 

Vetit.  Give  me  your  hand, 

We  soon  shall  meet  again.     Now  farewell,  Emperor. 

[  They  embrace. 
Methinks  that  word  's  too  cold  to  be  my  last; 
Since  death  sweeps  all  distinctions, 
Farewell,  friend ! 
That 's  all : 

I  will  not  make  a  business  of  a  trifle ; 
And  yet  I  cannot  look  on  you  and  kill  you. 
Pray  turn  your  face. 

Ant.     I  do;  strike  home  —  be  sure  1 

Vent.     Home,  as  my  sword  will  reach. 

[  Ventidius  kills  himself. 

Ant.  Oh,  thou  mistak'st ; 

That  wound  was  none  of  thine  ;  give  it  me  back  ; 
Thou  robb'st  me  of  my  death. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


233 


Vent.  I  do  indeed  ; 

But  think  't  is  the  first  time  I  e'er  deceived  you, 
If  that  may  plead  my  pardon.     And,  you  gods, 
Forgive  me,  if  you  will,  for  I  die  perjured 
Rather  than  kill  my  friend.  {Dies. 

Ant.     Farewell  !  Ever  my  leader,  even  in  death. 
My  queen  and  thou  have  got  the  start  of  me. 
And  I  'm  the  lag  of  honor.     Gone  so  soon  ? 
Is  death  no  more  }  he  used  him  carelessly, 
With  a  familiar  kindness  ere  he  knocked, 
Ran  to  the  door,  and  took  him  in  his  arms, 
As  who  should  say.  You  're  welcome  at  all  hours. 
A  friend  need  give  no  warning.     Books  had  spoiled  him. 
For  all  the  learned  are  cowards  by  profession.     'T  is  not  worth 
My  further  thought,  for  death,  for  aught  I  know. 
Is  but  to  think  no  more.     Here  's  to  be  satisfied 

[Falls  on  his  sword. 
I  've  missed  my  heart.     Oh,  unperforming  hand. 
Thou  never  could'st  have  erred  in  a  worse  time  ! 
My  fortune  jades  me  to  the  last,  and  death, 
Like  a  great  man,  takes  state,  and  makes  me  wait 
For  my  admittance.     Some  perhaps  from  Cxsar. 

[Noise  heard  within. 
If  he  should  find  me  living,  and  suspect 
That  I  played  booty  with  my  life,  —  I  '11  mend 
My  work  ere  they  can  reach  me. 

[Rises  to  his  knees.     Enter  Cleopatra,  Ckarmian,  and  Iras.] 

Cleo.     Where  is  my  lord  .''  Where  is  he  > 

Char.  There  he  lies. 

And  dead  Ventidius  by  him. 

Cleo.     My  fears  were  prophets.     I  am  come  too  late. 
Oh  !  that  accursed  Alexas. 

[She  runs  to  Antony. 

Ant.  Art  thou  living.'' 

Or  am  I  dead  before  I  knew,  and  thou 
The  first  kind  ghost  that  meets  me .'' 

Cleo.  Help  me  seat  him. 

Send  quickly,  send  for  help.  [They  place  Antony  in  a  chair. 

Ant.  I  am  answered. 

We  live  both.     Sit  thee  down,  my  Cleopatra. 
I  '11  make  the  most  I  can  of  life,  to  stay 
A  moment  more  with  thee. 

Cleo.     How  is  it  with  you  .' 

Ant.  'T  is  as  with  a  man 

Removing  in  a  hurry,  all  packed  up 
But  one  dear  jewel  that  his  haste  forgot. 
And  he,  for  that,  returns  upon  the  spur. 
So  I  come  back  for  thee. 


234 


FAMILIAR    TALKS 


Cleo.     Too  long,  ye  heavens,  ye  have  been  cruel  to  me; 
Now  show  your  mended  failh,  and  give  me  back 
This  fleeting  life. 

Ant.  It  will  not  be,  my  love. 

I  keep  my  soul  by  force. 
Say  but  thou  art  not  false. 

Cleo.  '1"  is  now  too  late 

To  say  I  'm  true.     I  '11  prove  it,  and  die  with  you. 

Ant.     Enough  ;  my  life  's  not  long  enough  for  more. 
Thou  say'st  thou  wilt  come  after  ;  1  believe  thee, 
For  I  can  now  believe  whatc'er  thou  say'st, 
That  we  may  part  more  kindly. 

Cleo.  I  "ill  come  ; 

Doubt  not,  my  life,  I  '11  come,  and  quickly  too; 
C«sar  shall  triumph  o'er  no  part  of  thee. 

Ant.     But  grieve  not  while  thou  stayest 
My  last  disastrous  times. 
Think  we  have  had  a  clear  and  glorious  day, 
And  heaven  did  kindly  to  delay  the  storm 
Just  till  our  close  of  evening.     Ten  years'  love, 
And  not  a  moment  lost,  but  all  improved 
To  the  utmost  joys, — what  ages  we  have  lived  I 
And  now  to  die  each  other's,  and  so  dying, 
While  hand  in  hand  we  walk  in  groves  below, 
Whole  troo])S  of  lovers'  ghosts  shall  flash  about  us, 
And  all  the  train  be  ours. 

Cleo.     Your  words  are  like  the  notes  of  dying  swans,  — 
Too  sweet  to  last.     Were  there  so  many  hours 
For  your  unkindness,  and  not  one  for  love  .'' 

Ant.     No,  not  a  minute.     This  one  kiss  — 
More  worth  than  all  I  leave  to  Cxsar  — 

\rh'  dies. 

Cleo.     My  lord,  my  lord  !  speak,  if  thou  yet  have  being  I 
Sign  to  me,  if  thou  cannot  speak,  or  cast 
One  look.     Do  anything  that  shows  you  live. 

Iras.     He  's  gone  too  far  to  hear  you. 
And  this  you  see,  a  lump  of  senseless  clay, 
The  leavings  of  a  soul. 

I  think  that  this  scene  shows  Dryden  at  his  very  best. 
His  rhymed  dramas  (and  over  one  third  of  his  plays  are 
entirely  rhyme)  do  not  approach  this  in  nobility.  I  will 
give  you  a  few  lines  from  the  Indian  Empcroi;  the  scenes 
of  which  are  laid  in  Peru,  to  show  you  his  rhymed  style. 
As  the  play   opens,  the  principal  characters,    Cortcz   and 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  235 

Pizarro,  the  Spanish  invaders,  thus  express  their  dehght  at 
the  beauty  of  this  new  country  on  whose  shores  they  have 
landed :  — 

{Enter  Cortez  and  Pizarro,  with  their  company.] 

Cortez.     On  what  new  happy  climate  are  we  thrown, 
So  long  kept  secret  and  so  lately  known  ? 
As  if  our  old  world  modestly  withdrew, 
And  here  in  private  had  brought  forth  a  new. 

Pizarro.     Corn,  oil,  and  wine,  are  wanting  to  this  ground, 
In  which  our  countries  fruitfully  abound, 
As  if  this  infant  world,  yet  unarrayed, 
Naked  and  bare  in  Nature's  lap  were  laid. 
No  useful  arts  have  yet  found  footing  here, 
But  all  untaught  and  savage  doth  appear. 

Cortez.     Wild  and  untaught  are  terms  which  we  alone 
Invent  for  fashions  differing  from  our  own  ; 
For  all  their  customs  are  by  Nature  wrought, 
But  we  by  art  unteach  what  Nature  taught. 

Pizarro.     In  Spain,  our  springs,  like  old  men's  children,  be 
Decayed  and  withered  from  their  infancy. 
No  kindly  showers  fall  on  our  barren  earth 
To  watch  the  season  in  a  timely  birth  ; 
Our  summer  such  a  russet  livery  wears 
As  in  a  garment  often  dyed  appears. 

Cortez.     Here  Nature  spreads  her  fruitful  sweetness  round, 
Breathes  on  the  air,  and  broods  upon  the  ground  ; 
Here  nights  and  days  the  only  seasons  be. 
The  sun  no  climate  does  so  gladly  see ; 
When  forced  from  hence  to  view  our  parts,  he  mourns, 
Takes  little  journeys  and  makes  quick  returns. 

And  thus  the  scene  continues  in  praise  of  this  new  fairy- 
land of  America,  which  they  are  soon  to  stain  with  the 
blood  of  their  conquered  victims.  I  think,  even  from  this 
little  extract,  you  will  decide  that  tragedy  does  not  move 
well  to  alternate  rhymes,  and  that  all  its  grandeur  departs 
when  it  is  set  to  a  see-saw  measure. 

As  a  better  specimen  of  his  rhymes,  I  shall  quote  Alex- 
ander's Feast,  which  is  thought  one  of  the  best  things  he 
ever  wrote.  Dryden  said  himself  that  it  was  "  the  best  ode 
ever  written  in  English."  It  was  composed  for  a  musical 
festival  held  in  honor  of  Saint  Cecilia.     It  is  called  — 


236  FAMILIAR   TALK'S 


Alexander's  feast. 

'T  was  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son  ; 
Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 
On  his  imperial  throne  : 
His  valiant  peers  were  ])laced  around, 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound 

(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned). 
The  lovely  Thais  by  his  side 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride, 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair  ; 
None  but  the  brave. 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 

Timotheus,  placed  on  high 
Amid  the  tuneful  choir. 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre; 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above, — 
Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love. 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god  ; 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode, 
When  he  to  fair  Olympia  pressed. 
And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast ; 
Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled. 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  the  world. 
The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound, 
A  present  deity  !  they  shout  around; 
A  present  deity  !  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound  : 
With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears. 
Assumes  the  god, 
Affects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician  sung, 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair  and  ever  young. 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes  ; 
Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums  ; 
Flushed  with  a  purple  grace, 
He  shows  his  honest  face. 
Now  give  the  hautboys  breath;  he  comes!  he  comes] 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  237 

Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young, 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain ; 

Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 

Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure. 

Rich  the  treasure, 

Sweet  the  pleasure. 

Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Soothed  with  the  sound,  the  king  grew  vain; 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again ; 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew  the  slain. 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise, 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes; 
And  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied. 
Changed  his  hand  and  checked  his  pride. 
He  chose  a  mournful  Muse, 
Soft  pity  to  infuse  ; 
He  sung  Darius  great  and  good. 

By  too  severe  a  fate 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen. 

Fallen  from  his  high  estate. 
And  weltering  in  his  blood. 
Deserted  at  his  utmost  need 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed, 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies. 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate, 
Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below; 
And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree  ; 
'T  was  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move, 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 

Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures. 

Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble. 
Honor  but  an  empty  bubble. 

Never  ending,  still  beginning, 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying; 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning. 
Think,  oh,  think  it  worth  enjoying. 

Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee. 

Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause; 
So  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the  cause. 


238  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Tiie  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain. 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again ; 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again  ! 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder. 
And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark !  hark  !  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head; 
As  awaked  from  the  dead, 
And  amazed,  he  stares  around. 
Revenge!  revenge!  Timotheus  cries; 
See  the  Furies  arise  ; 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear, 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes  I 
Behold  a  ghastly  band. 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand,  — 
Those  are  Grecian  ghosts  that  in  battle  were  slain, 
And  unburicd  remain 
Inglorious  on  the  plain. 
Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew, 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 
How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods. 
The  princes  ap])Iaud,  with  a  furious  joy  ; 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy. 
Thais  led  the  way 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy. 

Thus  long  ago. 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 
While  organs  yet  were  mute, 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 
And  sounding  lyre. 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame  ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  Icnirth  to  solemn  sounds. 
With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  239 

Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown  : 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies, 

She  drew  an  angel  down. 

This  ode  we  have  just  read  is  one  of  the  most  famous  in 
our  literature.  I  have  told  you  Dryden's  opinion  of  it. 
I  leave  it  now  to  your  own  taste  to  decide  whether  you 
prefer  it  above  some  of  the  lyrics  of  the  time  of  Shake- 
speare, or  some  others  of  the  poets  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury whom  we  shall  study  later. 

Dryden  lived  to  a  good  old  age,  and  in  his  last  days  was 
regarded  as  an  authority  almost  absolute  in  all  matters  of 
poetry.  The  place  which  literary  men  of  his  time,  and  for 
some  time  after,  were  accustomed  to  use  as  their  meeting- 
place —  a  sort  of  headquarters  for  the  wits  and  poets  — 
was  Will's  Coffee-house.  Here  Dryden  used  to  go  almost 
every  afternoon ;  and  as  he  entered,  everybody  made  way 
for  him  to  pass  to  his  favorite  seat,  which  was  in  the  warmest 
corner  near  the  chimney  in  winter,  and  on  the  coolest  end 
of  the  balcony  in  summer.  Here  he  sat  in  a  sort  of  state, 
the  autocrat  of  letters,  and  gave  his  opinions  on  literary  art 
till,  honored  and  reverenced  by  his  age,  he  died  in  the  first 
year  of  the  eighteenth  century,  at  the  age  of  sixty-nine. 


PART    V. 


FROM    POPE    TO    WORDSWORTH. 

THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY. 

1700    TO    I  790. 


lA 


INTRODUCTORY. 

DRYDEN'S  name  stands  like  a  grand  landmark  at  the 
end  of  the  seventeenth  century.  His  life  had  cov- 
ered a  period  full  of  changes.  Charles  I.  had  been  be- 
headed ;  Cromwell  had  held  his  stern  but  able  rule  over  the 
nation;  the  "merry  monarch,"  as  Charles  II.  was  called, 
had  kept  up  his  dissolute  revels  during  the  twenty-five  years 
he  had  been  king;  James  II.,  his  brother,  who  succeeded 
liim,  had  been  forced  to  give  up  his  crown  and  flee  to 
France ;  and  Mary,  the  daughter  of  James  II.,  with  her 
politic  and  wise  husband,  William  of  Orange,  were  reign- 
ing together  on  the  throne  of  England  when  Dryden  died, 
just  in  the  opening  year  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Two 
years  after  his  death,  Mary's  sister,  Anne,  became  queen. 
Her  reign  is  often  called  the  Augustan  age  of  literature,  — 
a  title  borrowed  from  a  period  in  Latin  history. 
During  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Augustus  C^sar, 
Latin  poetry  rose  to  its  greatest  height  in  elegance.  The 
poets  of  that  day  worked  to  make  the  language  pure  and  pol- 
ished, and  their  verse  perfect  according  to  established  rules. 
And  as  the  Emperor  Augustus  was  one  of  the  patrons  of 
literature,  and  it  throve  under  his  fostering  care,  the  age 
has  been  known  as  the  Augustan  age.  And  hence  it  is 
that  the  period  in  English  which  is  claimed  to  resemble 
this  era  in  Roman  history  received  the  name  of  the  Au- 
gustan age. 

You  will  see  that  the  work  of  Dryden  in  poetry  and  criti- 
cism had  been  leading  up  to  a  new  taste  in  literature.  The 
French  have  always  imitated  the  ancients,  especially  in  their 
work  for  the  stage.  Form  and  method  were  in  their  eyes 
two  of  the  most  important  requirements  in  poetry.  Fol- 
lowing them,  the  new  school  of  English  writers  began  to 


244  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

consider  the  artificial  finish  of  a  verse  the  great  test  of  its 
merit.  Dryden  had  made  verse  in  his  day  more  artificially 
perfect  than  it  had  ever  been.  The  best  writers  among 
those  who  followed  him  improved  upon  their  master.  The 
writers  of  the  Elizabethan  age,  even  Shakespeare  and  Milton, 
were  looked  down  upon  as  poets  who  did  very  well  in  their 
day,  but  did  not  understand  the  true  art  by  which  poetry 
was  manufactured.  This  was  the  aspect  of  the  popular 
taste  towards  poetry  when  Dryden  died ;  and  as  he  had, 
more  than  most  men,  set  the  fashion  and  laid  down  the 
rules  for  the  time  in  which  he  lived,  it  was  natural  that  his 
influence  should  extend  into  the  age  that  followed.  That 
he  did  have  such  an  influence  we  shall  recognize  in  study- 
ing the  works  of  Pope,  the  greatest  poet  of  the  Augustan 
age. 

We  shall  notice,  in  reading  the  leading  writers  of  this 
new  period  in  English  literature,  that  many  of  its  greatest 
productions  in  poetry  and  in  prose  are  satires.  Both  Latin 
and  I'Vench  literature  were  distinguished  for  satirical  power; 
but  until  Dryden's  time  Engli/ii  literature  had  not  been  dis- 
tinguished for  its  satire..  But  with  the  polish  of  the  French 
school,  the  English  writer  began  to  borrow  the  keenness  of 
its  satire,  which  held  up  to  laughter  anything  in  art,  society, 
or  politics  which  he  wanted  to  reform.  Satires  against 
persons,  too,  became  common,  and  the  poet  could  in  this 
way  use  his  talents  as  a  means  of  defence  against  those 
who  were  unjust  to  him,  or  of  revenge  against  those  whom 
he  disliked,  Dryden's  MacFlccknoe  and  Pope's  Dunciad, 
both  satires  against  persons,  are  two  of  the  most  famous 
English  works  of  this  kind  written  in  verse. 

Another  marked  feature  of  the  age  was  the  clul),  —  a 
gathering  of  literary  men  or  politicians,  or  any  group  of 
men  of  similar  tastes  and  pursuits,  at  some  general  meet- 
ing-place where  they  could  discuss  subjects  most  interesting 
to  them  with  more  freedom  than  at  any  private  house.  We 
have  seen  that  the  wits  and  poets  of  the  sixteenth  century 
were  wont  to  gather  at  the  Mermaid.  Ben  Jonson,  a  little 
later,  formed  a  club   at    tlic    Devil   Tavern,   and    Dryden 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  245 

gathered  about  him  the  most  famous  men  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  at  Will's  Coffee-house.  In  the  reign  of 
Queen  Anne  these  clubs  became  the  rage.  They  were 
generally  formed  in  some  of  the  inns  or  eating-houses  of 
the  time,  and  you  cannot  read  the  history  or  the  literature 
of  the  age  without  finding  constant  mention  of  them. 
Will's  Coffee-house  continued  the  chief  centre  for  the  men 
of  letters,  and  Pope,  Gay,  Swift,  Arbuthnot,  and  others,  who 
formed  the  Scriblerus  Club^  met  there.  Not  far  from  \Viirs 
was  another  coffee-house,  known  as  Button's,  where  Addison 
used  to  have  his  headquarters,  and  where  his  friends  sought 
him  out  when  they  wanted  to  enjoy  the  charm  of  his  society. 
Then  there  was  the  Kit-Kat  Club,  which  was  formed  prin- 
cipally of  politicians,  but  which  included  also  Addison  and 
Steele.  This  met  at  the  shop  of  a  pastry-cook,  Christopher 
Kat,  who  was  celebrated  for  the  excellence  of  his  mutton- 
pies.  These  are  two  or  three  among  the  many  meeting- 
places  of  the  wits  and  public  men  of  the  day,  and  you  can 
see  how  these  gatherings  must  have  fostered  the  discussions 
of  all  questions  which  the  pens  of  the  writers  of  the  time 
took  for  their  theme,  and  what  a  strong  influence  on  society 
the  clubs  of  the  day  exercised.  With  this  glimpse  into  the 
Augustan  age,  we  will  begin  our  consideration  of  some  of  its 
chief  writers,  —  Pope,  Prior,  and  Gay  in  poetry ;  Congreve, 
its  greatest  dramatic  writer ;  and  De  Foe,  Swift,  Addison, 
and  Steele,  in  prose. 

1  This  club  had  its  name  from  a  satire  of  the  time,  written  by  one  of 
its  members,  John  Arbuthnot,  to  ridicule  the  pedantic  and  false  taste 
in  literature.     The  satire  was  called  Manoirs  of  Martin  Scriblerus. 


246  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

XXXV. 

On  Alexander  Pope  and  his  School  of  Poetry. 

ALEXANDER  POPE  was  a  boy  of  twelve  when  Dry- 
den  died.  He  was  a  very  precocious  boy,  beginning 
to  write  verses  at  eight  years,  and  lisping  rhymes  almost 
1744  ^^°™  ^^^^  cradle.  He  was  a  great  reader,  both 
of  English  and  the  classic  writers,  devouring  all 
kinds  of  books  as  soon  as  he  could  read.  Of  course  he 
read  and  admired  Dryden,  like  all  the  rest  of  his  age.  On 
one  occasion,  when  eleven  or  twelve,  he  induced  some 
friend  to  take  him  to  Will's  Coffee-house,  where  Dryden 
sat  in  state,  like  a  poetical  lawgiver,  almost  every  afternoon 
in  the  year.  With  what  admiring  eyes  the  little  boy,  who 
burned  with  desire  to  be  one  day  a  great  poet,  must  have 
looked  on  the  old  man  in  his  armchair,  surrounded  by  his 
courts  of  wits  and  admirers  !  It  is  related  that  at  this  visit 
some  one  showed  Dryden  Pope's  translation  of  some  Latin 
verses,  and  that  he  patted  the  schoolboy  on  the  head  in 
approval,  and  gave  him  a  shilling.  The  approval  was  worth 
more  than  the  shilling  to  Pope,  we  may  be  sure,  and  he 
must  have  remembered  it  with  pleasure  all  his  life  after. 

Pope  is  usually  regarded  as  the  founder  of  the  school  of 
poetry  which  prevailed  all  through  the  eighteenth  century ; 
but  it  was  a  school  of  which  Dryden  had  laid  the  corner- 
stone. Pope  could  not  but  be  influenced  by  Dryden, 
whom  he  had  read  so  early  and  admired  so  much.  But 
in  form  and  execution  Pope  excelled  his  master.  He  had 
a  delicate,  musical  ear,  —  an  ear  that  demanded  regular 
cadences ;  and  he  wrote  lines  more  regular  and  smooth 
than  those  which  contented  Dryden  and  his  contempor- 
aries. His  rhythm  is  so  regular  it  sounds  to  many  ears 
mechanical.  His  poetry  is  rhymed,  and  almost  always  in 
couplets ;   the  lines  have  a  sce-saw  sound,  the  first  half  of 


O.V  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  247 

the  verse  balancing  the  last  like  a  pair  of  scales,  —  as  these, 
for  instance  :  — 

"  Worth  makes  the  man,  the  want  of  it  the  fellow." 

"  Slave  to  no  sect,  who  take  no  private  road, 
But  look  from  Nature  up  to  Nature's  God.'' 

"  To  err  is  human,  to  forgive  divine." 

One  can  fancy  that  to  read  right  on,  for  hours,  these 
smooth,  balanced  lines  would  be  very  tiresome,  no  matter 
how  excellent  the  sense.  Indeed,  it  seems  to  me  that 
much  of  Pope's  meaning  would  be  as  good  or  better  in 
prose,  and  that  he  might  have  saved  himself  the  trouble 
of  rhyming,  I  should  claim  that  the  true  test  of  poetry 
is  that  its  subject-matter  should  transcend  prose,  and  flow 
naturally  into  harmonious  numbers ;  that  the  thought  had 
sought  expression  in  poetry  because  prose  had  been  a 
garment  too  mean  and  poor  to  clothe  its  nobility.  If  this 
be  so,  Pope  is  not  always  a  poet.  But  if  poetry  be  the 
art  which  puts  any  thought,  commonplace  or  not,  into 
regular  numbers  and  almost  perfect  form,  then  Pope 
belongs  among  the  greatest  English  poets.  He  was  a 
man  in  miserable  health,  with  a  sickly,  deformed  body; 
yet  in  spite  of  this  he  did  prodigies  of  work,  and  elabo- 
rated all  he  did  with  the  patience  of  the  worker  in  dia- 
monds, who  cuts,  polishes,  and  refines  till  the  jewel  gives 
out  its  fullest  lustre. 

Pope  wrote  no  plays,  —  the  first  great  poet  since  Shake- 
speare's age  who  did  not  write  in  the  dramatic  form.  In- 
stead, he  wrote  moral  essays  in  verse,  —  the  Essay  on  Man 
and  the  Essay  on  Criticism  ;  a  few  lyrics,  as  the  Ode  on  St. 
Cecilia's  Day,  which  is  not  so  good  as  Dryden's ;  a  great 
many  epistles  to  different  persons ;  satires,  in  which  he 
is  a  master ;  translations  and  imitations  of  Greek  and  Latin 
authors ;  and  some  miscellaneous  poems.  His  translation 
of  Homer's  Iliad  and  Odyssey  alone  would  have  made  him 
famous,  and  he  also  put  Virgil  and  Horace  into  English 
verse,  and  turned  some  of  Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales  into 
modern    form,    much   after   the    manner   of  a  translation. 


248  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

One  of  his  famous  poems  (many  think  it  his  best)  is  the 
Rape  of  the  Lock,  a  Uvely  story  in  verse.  The  incident  is 
the  steahng  of  a  lock  of  hair  from  the  head  of  a  belle  by 
one  of  her  admirers.  The  subject,  which  is  rather  arti- 
ficial, suits  Pope's  style;  there  is  no  other  of  his  poems 
in  which  both  style  and  subject  are  so  in  harmony,  and 
this,  no  doubt,  is  one  reason  of  its  success.  The  heroine, 
Belinda,  has  been  warned  by  a  sylph  of  the  air,  her  guar- 
dian, who  superintends  her  toilet,  that  some  dread  event 
is  to  happen ;  but,  undisturbed  by  the  warning,  she  begins 
to  dress  for  an  excursion  up  the  Thames  to  Hampton. 
Her  toilet  is  thus  described :  — 

"  And  now  unveiled  the  toilet  stands  displayed, 

Each  silver  vase  in  mystic  order  laid. 

First,  robed  in  white,  the  nymph  intent  adores, 

With  head  uncovered,  the  cosmetic  powers. 

A  heavenly  image  in  the  glass  appears  ; 

To  that  she  bends,  to  that  her  eyes  she  rears. 

The  inferior  priestess,  at  her  altar's  side, 

Trembling  begins  the  sacred  rites  of  pride. 

Unnumbered  treasures  ope  at  once,  and  here 

The  various  offerings  of  the  world  appear  ; 

From  each  she  nicely  culls  with  curious  toil. 

And  decks  the  goddess  with  the  glittering  spoil. 

This  casket  India's  glowing  gems  unlocks, 

And  all  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder  box. 

The  tortoise  here  and  elephant  unite, 

Transformed  to  combs,  the  speckled  and  the  white. 

Here  files  of  pins  extend  their  shining  rows, 

Puffs,  powders,  patches,  Bibles,  billets-doux. 

Now  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms  ; 

The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her  charms. 

Repairs  her  smiles,  awakens  every  grace, 

And  calls  forth  all  the  wonders  of  her  face ; 

Sees  by  degrees  a  purer  blush  arise, 

And  keener  lightnings  quicken  in  her  eyes. 

"Not  with  more  glories,  in  the  ethereal  plain, 
The  sun  first  rises  o'er  the  purpled  main. 
Than,  issuing  forth,  the  rival  of  his  beams. 
Launched  on  the  bosom  of  the  silver  Thames. 
Fair  nymphs  and  well-dressed  youths  around  her  shone, 
But  every  eye  was  fixed  on  her  alone. 
On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore. 
Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  infidels  adore. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  249 

Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose, 
Quick  as  her  eyes  and  as  unfixed  as  those. 
Favors  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends; 
Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 
Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike. 
And  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 
Yet  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of  pride, 
Might  hide  her  faults,  if  belles  had  faults  to  hide. 
If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall. 
Look  on  her  face,  and  you  '11  forget  'em  all. 

"  This  nymph,  to  the  destruction  of  mankind, 
Nourished  two  locks,  which  graceful  hung  behind 
In  equal  curls,  and  well  conspired  to  deck 
With  shining  ringlets  the  smooth  ivory  neck. 
Love  in  these  labyrinths  his  slaves  detains. 
And  mighty  hearts  are  held  in  slender  chains. 
With  hairy  springes  we  the  birds  betray; 
Slight  lines  of  hair  surprise  the  finny  prey  ; 
Fair  tresses  man's  imperial  race  ensnare, 
And  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single  hair. 

"The  adventurous  baron  the  bright  locks  admired; 
He  saw,  he  wished,  and  to  the  prize  aspired. 
Resolved  to  win,  he  meditates  the  way. 
By  force  to  ravish,  or  by  fraud  betray. 
For  when  success  a  lover's  toil  attends. 
Few  ask  if  fraud  or  force  attained  his  ends." 

The  Rape  of  the  Lock  is  a  poem  of  society,  witty,  spark- 
ling, and  without  earnestness.  The  poetical  essays  are  in  a 
different  vein,  and  the  Essay  on  Mati  is  full  of  sound  phi- 
losophy.    You  may  judge  of  it  by  this  extract :  — 

"  Heaven  from  all  creatures  hides  the  book  of  fate. 
All  but  the  page  prescribed,  their  present  state ; 
From  brutes  what  men,  from  men  what  spirits  know ; 
Or  who  could  suffer  being  here  below? 
The  lamb  thy  riot  dooms  to  bleed  to-day. 
Had  he  thy  reason  would  he  skip  and  play  ? 
Pleased  to  the  last,  he  crops  the  flowery  food. 
And  licks  the  hand  just  raised  to  shed  his  blood. 
Oh,  blindness  to  the  future,  kindly  given, 
That  each  may  fill  the  circle  marked  by  Heaven; 
Who  sees  with  equal  eye,  as  God  of  all, 
A  hero  perish  or  a  sparrow  fall. 
Atoms  or  systems  into  ruin  hurled. 
And  now  a  bubble  burst,  and  now  a  world. 

"  Hope  humbly,  then,  with  trembling  pinions  soar, 
Wait  the  great  teacher,  Death,  and  God  adore. 


250  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

What  future'bliss  he  gives  not  thee  to  know, 

But  gives  that  hope  to  be  thy  blessing  now. 

Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast; 

Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be,  blessed. 

The  soul,  uneasy,  and  confined  from  home, 

Rests  and  expatiates  on  a  life  to  come. 

Lo,  the  poor  Indian!  whose  untutored  mind 

Sees  God  in  clouds,  or  hears  him  in  the  wind ; 

His  soul  proud  science  never  taught  lo  stray 

Far  as  the  solar  walk,  or  milky  way; 

Yet  simple  Nature  to  his  hope  hath  given, 

Behind  the  cloud-topped  hill,  an  humbler  heaven, — 

Some  safer  world  in  depth  of  woods  embraced, 

Some  happier  island  in  the  watery  waste, 

Where  slaves  once  more  their  native  land  behold, 

No  fiends  torment,  no  Christians  thirst  for  gold. 

To  be  content 's  his  natural  desire, 

He  asks  no  angel's  wing,  no  seraph's  fire, 

But  thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky. 

His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company." 

The  measure  of  Pope's  verses  is  almost  always  the  same, 
—  in  rhymed  couplets  like  these  that  I  have  quoted.  He 
has  written,  however,  a  few  lyrics,  and  the  best-known  of 
these,  IVie  Dying  Christian  to  His  Soul,  we  will  read  as  an 
example  of  his  style  in  the  ode  :  — 

"  Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame, 
Quit,  oh,  quit  this  mortal  frame! 
Trembling,  hoping,  lingering,  flying. 
Oh,  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying ! 
Cease,  fond  Nature,  cease  thy  strife, 
And  let  me  languish  into  life. 

"  Hark  !  they  whisper  ;  angels  say, 
'  Sister  spirit,  come  away.' 
What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite, 
Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight, 
Drowns  my  spirits,  draws  my  breath  } 
Tell  me,  my  soul,  can  this  be  death  .•" 

"The  world  recedes,  it  disappears  ; 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes  ,  my  ears 
With  sounds  seraphic  ring. 
Lend,  lend  your  wings !     I  mount,  I  fly  ! 
O  Grave,  where  is  thy  victory? 
O  Death,  where  is  thy  sting.'"' 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURK  2$  I 

You  will  notice  in  reading  Pope  for  the  first  time  how 
many  familiar  lines  are  found  in  his  poetry, —  lines,  perhaps, 
which  you  have  heard  without  knowing  whence  they  came. 
There  are  few  writers  so  much  quoted ;  I  think  that  a 
volume  of  Pope  furnishes  more  familiar  quotations  than 
any  other  in  our  language  except  the  Bible  or  Shakespeare. 
Lines  so  even  and  flowing,  and  so  witty  and  full  of  point, 
are  doubly  apt  to  stick  in  the  memory. 

Pope's  influence  on  his  own  age  and  on  the  whole  cen- 
tury in  which  he  lived  was  very  great.  During  his  life  he 
was  a  poetical  oracle,  and  he  put  poetry  into  a  bondage 
from  which  it  was  not  freed  for  a  hundred  years.  Almost 
every  poet  up  to  the  last  of  the  eighteenth  century  was 
a  follower  of  Pope.  During  all  these  years  poetry  kept  a 
dead  level  of  correctness,  until  a  few  men  of  strong  and 
original  genius  arose  who  broke  its  bonds  and  gave  it 
again  some  of  the  free  and  untamed  spirit  that  had  in- 
spired it  in  the  Elizabethan  age. 


XXXVI. 

On  Prior,  Gay,  and  Parnell. 

FAR  below  Pope  in  rank  come  Prior,  Gay,  and  Parnell, 
all  of  whom  were  his  friends  or  acquaintances. 
Matthew  Prior,  a  man  of  the  world  and  a 
politican  who  held  several  fat  offices,  found 
leisure  to  write  a  great  deal  and  in  a  variety  of  styles,  — 
lyrics,  narrative  poems,  epitaphs,  epistles,  and  odes.  He 
wrote  a  dull  poem  on  Sohvnon,  or  the  Vanities  of  the 
World,  and  another,  equally  tiresome,  called  Alma,  or  the 
Progress  of  the  Mind.  We  shall  probably  never  get  farther 
in  our  knowledge  of  these  than  the  titles.  His  best  poems 
are  his  shortest  ones,  and  I  shall  dismiss  Prior  with  one  of 
the  prettiest  of  these  short  lyrics :  — 


252  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

"The  pride  of  every  grove  I  chose, 
The  violet  sweet  and  lily  fair, 
The  dappled  pink  and  blushing  rose, 
To  deck  my  charming  Chloe's  hair. 

"At  morn  the  nymph  vouchsafed  to  place 
Upon  her  brow  the  various  wreath, — 
The  flower  less  blooming  than  her  face. 
The  scent  less  fragrant  than  her  breath. 

"  The  flowers  she  wore  along  the  day, 
And  every  nymph  and  shej^herd  said 
That  in  her  hair  they  looked  mure  gay 
Than  glowing  in  their  native  bed. 

"  Undressed  at  evening,  when  she  found 
Their  odors  lost,  their  colors  past. 
She  changed  her  look,  and  on  the  ground 
Her  garland  and  her  eye  she  cast. 

"  That  eye  dropped  sense  distinct  and  clear 
As  any  muse's  tongue  could  speak. 
When  from  its  lid  a  pearly  tear 
Ran  trickling  down  her  beauteous  cheek. 

"  Dissembling  what  I  knew  too  well, 
'  My  life,  my  love,'  I  said,  '  explain 
This  change  of  humor  ;  prithee  tell  ; 
This  falling  tear,  — what  does  it  mean  } ' 

"  She  sighed,  she  smiled  ;  and  to  the  flowers 
Pointing,  the  lovely  moralist  said, 
'  See,  friend,  in  some  few  fleeting  hours. 
See,  yonder,  what  a  change  is  made. 

" '  Ah  !  me,  the  blooming  pride  of  May 
And  that  of  beauty  are  but  one  ; 
At  morn  both  flourish  bright  and  gay, 
Both  fade  at  evening,  pale  and  gone. 

"'At  dawn  poor  .Stella  laughed  and  sung; 
The  amorous  youth  around  her  bowed ; 
At  night  her  fatal  knell  was  rung. 
I  saw,  and  kissed  her  in  her  shroud. 

"'  Such  as  she  is  who  died  today, 
Such  I,  alas !  may  be  to-morrow. 
Go,  Damon,  bid  thy  muse  display 
The  justice  of  thy  Chloe's  sorrow.'  " 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  253 

John  Gay,  born  in  the  same  year  with  Pope,  much  be- 
loved by  him  in  hfe,  and  mourned  by  him  at  his 

1688-1732 
death,  was  one  of  the  most  amiable  of  all  these 

poets,  and  was  known  as  a  man  too  good-natured  for  his 
own  advantage.  He  began  by  writing  pastoral  poems, 
which  really  contained  some  natural  pictures  of  country 
life,  in  contrast  to  most  pastorals,  which  are  as  stiff  and  un- 
like nature  as  possible.  After  these.  Gay  wrote,  in  contrast 
to  his  earlier  works,  a  long  epic  called  Trivia,  or  the  Art  of 
Walking  the  Streets  of  London,  in  which  he  describes  city 
scenes.  This  last  poem  is  to  me  exceedingly  dull,  the  only 
merit  I  find  in  it  being  that  the  street  scenes  it  paints  are 
interesting  as  a  study  of  the  times.  After  these  achieve- 
ments in  verse  he  began  to  write  dramas,  none  of  them 
drawing  much  attention  till  he  wrote  the  Beggars''  Opera, 
which  brought  him  both  fame  and  money.  The  characters 
in  this  were  highwaymen  and  thieves,  the  lowest  characters 
in  Newgate  prison  ;  but  they  were  depicted  with  humor, 
accompanied  by  a  biting  satire  against  follies  which  were 
found  to  exist  as  well  in  the  highest  society  as  among 
thieves.  The  hero  is  the  highwayman,  Macheath,  who 
narrowly  escapes  hanging.  In  one  place  he  says,  "  As  to 
conscience  and  nasty  morals,  I  have  as  few  drawbacks  up- 
on my  pleasures  as  any  man  of  quality  in  England  ;  in  these 
I  am  not  in  the  least  vulgar;  "  and  Polly,  the  heroine,  says 
pertly,  "  A  woman  knows  how  to  be  mercenary,  though  she 
has  never  been  in  a  court  or  an  assembly."  Besides  such 
hits  as  these  at  the  follies  and  vice  of  the  age,  some  of  the 
lines  contain  a  vast  deal  of  cynical  wisdom.  One  of  the 
rogues  exclaims  over  his  cups,  "  The  present  time  is  ours, 
and  nobody  alive  has  more."  "Well,  I  forgive  you,"  says 
Mrs.  Peachum  to  Polly,  "  as  far  as  one  woman  can  forgive 
another." 

After  the  great  success  of  the  Beggar's  Opera,  Gay  wrote 
a  sequel  called  Polly,  which,  as  almost  always  happens 
when  one  tries  to  repeat  a  success,  was  greatly  inferior  to 
the  first.  Yet  he  made  money  by  it,  and  was  able  to  retire 
in  comfortable  circumstances,  leading  a  life  of  retirement 


254  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

the  rest  of  his  days.  His  latest  works  were  fables  in  rhyme, 
inclosing  a  shrewd  and  wholesome  moral.  Here  is  one  of 
the  best : — 

THE   MAN    AND  THE   FLEA. 

Whether  on  earth,  in  air,  or  main, 
Sure  everything  alive  is  vain. 
Does  not  the  hawk  all  fowls  survey 
As  destined  only  for  his  prey  ? 
And  do  not  tyrants,  prouder  things, 
Think  men  were  born  for  slaves  to  kings  } 
When  the  crab  views  the  pearly  strands, 
Or  Tagus  bright  with  golden  sands, 
Or  crawls  beside  the  coral  grove 
And  hears  the  ocean  roll  above, — 
"  Nature  is  too  profuse,"  says  he, 
"  Who  gave  all  these  to  pleasure  me." 
When  bordering  pinks  and  roses  bloom, 
And  every  garden  breathes  perfume ; 
When  peaches  glow  with  sunny  dyes, 
Like  Laura's  cheek  when  blushes  rise  ; 
When  with  huge  figs  the  branches  bend; 
When  clusters  from  the  vine  depend, — 
The  sttail  looks  round  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  cries,  "  All  these  were  made  for  me." 

"  What  dignity  's  in  human  nature  !  " 
Says  Man,  the  most  conceited  creature, 
As  from  a  cliff  he  cast  his  eye, 
And  viewed  the  sea  and  arched  sky. 
The  sun  was  sunk  beneath  the  main  ; 
The  moon  and  all  the  starry  train 
Hung  the  vast  vault  of  heaven ;  the  man 
His  contemplation  thus  began  : 

"  When  I  behold  this  glorious  show. 
And  the  wide  watery  world  below. 
The  scaly  people  of  the  main. 
The  beasts  that  range  the  woods  or  plain. 
The  wing'd  inhabitants  of  air, 
The  night,  the  day,  the  various  year. 
And  know  all  these  by  heaven  designed 
As  gifts  to  pleasure  humankind,  — 
I  cannot  raise  my  worth  too  high  : 
Of  what  vast  consequence  am  I  !  " 

"  Not  of  th'  importance  you  suppose," 
Replies  ^ijlea  upon  his  nose. 
"  Be  humble ;  learn  thyself  to  scan  ; 
Know  pride  was  never  made  for  man ; 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  2$^ 

'T  is  vanity  that  swells  thy  mind. 
What  heaven  and  earth  for  i/ue  designed ! 
For  (/i^e,  made  only  for  our  need, 
That  more  important yfc'aj  might  feed." 

One  of  the  prettiest  things  Gay  ever  wrote  is  the  ballad 
of  Black-Eyed  Susan,  which  gave  a  later  writer,  Douglas 
Jerrold,  the  title  for  a  comedy.  And  let  us  note  here  that 
one  thing  for  which  Gay  deserves  credit  is  that  he  did  not 
write,  like  so  many  of  his  compeers,  about  dukes  and  duch- 
esses, but  that  in  the  Beggar's  Opera  he  contrives  to  wake 
an  interest  in  the  human  nature  common  to  all  men  and 
women,  just  as  in  the  ballad  of  Black-Eyed  Susan  it  is  the 
common  sailor  and  his  love  for  whom  he  seeks  our  sym- 
pathy. This  is  so  much  the  case  in  our  day  that  it  would 
not  attract  notice ;  but  we  must  remember  that  it  was  differ- 
ent in  the  time  of  Gay,  and  that  the  humanity  that  makes 
us  all  akin  was  not  so  much  the  subject  of  the  poet's 
verse. 

WILLIAM'S   FAREWELL  TO   BLACK-EYED   SUSAN. 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moored, 

The  streamers  waving  in  the  wind. 
When  Black-eyed  Susan  came  aboard. 

"  Oh,  where  shall  I  my  true  love  find  ? 
Tell  me,  ye  jovial  sailors,  tell  me  true, 
If  my  sweet  William  sails  among  the  crew." 

William,  who  high  upon  the  yard 

Rocked  with  the  billow  to  and  fro, 
Soon  as  her  well-known  voice  he  heard. 

He  sighed  and  cast  his  eyes  below. 
The  cord  slides  swiftly  through  his  glowing  hands, 
And  quick  as  lightning  on  the  deck  he  stands. 

So  the  sweet  lark,  high  poised  in  air. 

Shuts  close  his  pinions  to  his  breast 
If  chance  his  mate's  shrill  call  he  hear, 

And  drops  at  once  into  her  nest. 
The  noblest  captain  in  the  British  fleet 
Might  envy  William's  lip  those  kisses  sweet. 

"  O  Susan,  Susan,  lovely  dear, 

My  vows  shall  ever  true  remain. 
Let  me  kiss  off  that  falling  tear; 

We  only  part  to  meet  again. 


256  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Change  as  ye  list,  ye  winds  ;  my  heart  shall  be 
The  faithful  compass  that  still  points  to  thee. 

"  If  to  fair  India's  coast  we  sail, 

Thy  eyes  are  seen  in  diamonds  bright, 
Thy  breath  is  Afric's  spicy  gale, 

Thy  skin  is  ivory  so  white. 
Thus  every  beauteous  object  that  I  view 
Wakes  in  my  soul  some  charm  of  lovely  Sue. 

"  Though  battle  call  me  from  thy  arms, 

Let  not  my  pretty  Susan  mourn ; 
Though  cannons  roar,  yet,  safe  from  harms, 

William  shall  to  his  dear  return. 
Love  turns  aside  the  balls  that  round  me  fly, 
Lest  precious  tears  should  drop  from  Susan's  eye.'" 

The  boatswain  gave  the  dreadful  word  ; 

The  sails  their  swelling  bosoms  spread: 
No  longer  must  she  stay  aboard. 

They  kissed,  she  sighed,  he  hung  his  head. 
Her  lessening  boat  unwilling  rows  to  lantl ; 
"Adieu,"  she  cries,  and  waved  her  lily  hand. 

Thomas  Parnell  was  a  clergyman  and  a  scholar.     He 

wrote  one  piece  which  has  earned  him  nearly  all 
1679-1718 

the  fame  he  possesses  as  a  poet, — The  Hermit, — 

written  in  that  see-saw  rhyme  that  becomes  so  tiresome  to 

the  ear  when  we  read  much  of  it.     These  are  the  opening 

lines :  — 

"  Far  in  a  wild,  unknown  to  public  view. 
From  youth  to  age  a  reverend  hermit  grew. 
The  moss  his  bed  ;  the  cave  his  humble  cell ; 
His  food  the  fruits,  his  drink  the  crystal  well. 
Remote  from  men,  with  God  he  passed  the  days; 
Prayer  all  his  business,  all  his  pleasure  praise." 

I  shall  not  quote  The  Hermit  further  ;  it  is  a  poem  which 
I  think  will  not  find  so  many  readers  in  the  future  as  it  has 
found  in  the  past ;  but  there  is  one  little  song  by  Parnell 
which  we  will  read,  that  for  melody  and  archness  could 
easily  be  put  among  the  best  songs  of  the  earlier  singers, 
Suckling,  Lovelace,  or  Waller.  It  is  a  wonder  that  a  man 
who  could  write  such  a  song  could  have  been  tied  down  to 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  2$? 

such  stiff  models,  and  have  trained  his  muse  to  grind  out 
the  formal  measure  in  which  T/ie  Hermit  is  written : 

"  When  thy  beauty  appears 
In  its  graces  and  airs, 
All  bright  as  an  angel  new  dropt  from  the  sky, 
At  distance  I  gaze,  and  am  awed  by  my  fears, 
So  strangely  you  dazzle  my  eye. 

"  But  when,  without  art, 
Your  kind  thought  you  impart ; 
When  your  love  runs  in  blushes  through  every  vein ; 
When  it  darts  from  your  eyes,  when  it  pants  in  your  heart,  — 
Then  I  know  you  're  a  woman  again. 

"  '  There  's  a  passion  and  pride 
In  our  sex,'  she  replied, 
'  And  thus  (might  I  gratify  both)  I  would  do, — 
Still  an  angel  appear  to  each  lover  beside, 
But  still  be  a  woman  to  you.'  " 


XXXVII. 

On  the  Author  of  "  Robinson  Crusoe." 


o 


UR  hearts  will  always  respond  to  the  mention  of  the 
name  of  Daniel  De  Foe,  if  we  have  read 
the  story  of  Robinson  Crusoe  when  we  were  chil- 
dren,—  and  who  of  us  did  not? 

Most  of  these  writers  of  the  Augustan  age  were  men  who 
belonged  to  the  English  Church,  and  were  in  sympathy 
with  the  political  party  in  power.  De  Foe  was  much  of 
the  time  in  opposition  to  both.  In  religion  he  belonged 
to  the  Dissenters ;  in  politics  he  was  a  Whig ;  and  although 
a  few  of  his  political  pamphlets  were  popular,  they  brought 
him,  for  the  most  part,  only  trouble.  He  was  several  times 
fined ;  three  times  set  in  the  pillory ;  imprisoned  in  New- 
gate for  more  than  a  year,  where  he  had  an  opportunity  to 
study  some  of  the  types  of  character  he  afterwards  put 
into  his  fictions.  It  was  late  in  Hfe  when  he  gave  up  po- 
litical writing  and  began  to  write  novels.     Then  he  seems 

17 


258  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

to  have  led  a  more  peaceful  life,  and  the  success  of  Robin- 
son Crusoe  proved  that  he  need  not  depend  on  politics  for 
either  fame  or  pecuniary  reward. 

De  Foe's  writing  is  the  perfection  of  realism.  When  he 
tells  a  story  we  feel  that  it  is  true ;  we  believe  it  in  spite  of 
knowledge  to  the  contrary.  In  his  own  time  his  stories 
were  accepted  as  fact,  and  even  to  this  day  it  is  a  disputed 
question  whether  some  of  his  novels  were  not  drawn  from 
authentic  manuscript,  or  others  taken  down  from  the  lips 
of  the  narrator.  The  way  in  which  he  gives  all  the  little 
details  of  the  story,  the  exact  dates,  the  dress  of  his  charac- 
ters, the  minute  descriptions,  —  all  make  it  a  reality.  Who 
could  ever  doubt  the  truth  of  a  word  of  Robinson  Crusoe 
while  reading  the  story?  And  the  Account  of  the  Great 
Plague,  The  Life  of  Colonel  Jack,  The  Adventures  of 
Captain  Singleton,  The  Appearance  of  M/s.  Veal's  Ghost 
to  one  Airs.  Bargrave,  are  all  equally  realistic. 

He  wrote  two  hundred  and  ten  different  works,  and  at 
last  died  poor.  He  was  always  rising  and  falling  in  for- 
tune, one  can  hardly  tell  how  or  why,  and  says  of  himself 
towards  the  last :  — 

"  No  man  has  tasted  different  fortunes  more  ; 
And  thirteen  times  I  have  been  rich  and  poor." 

His  style  cannot  be  too  much  admired  in  this  age  of 
superlatives  and  exaggerated  writing.  It  is  the  honest 
English  of  every-day  life,  —  simple,  direct,  and  not  many- 
syllabled.  And  though  he  wrote  on  homely  matters,  and 
often  of  vicious  men  and  women,  he  wrote  with  good  sense 
and  in  the  interests  of  morality.  His  works  are  accurate 
as  well  as  realistic,  and  often  are  more  valuable  than  history 
as  a  picture  of  the  times. 

From  the  great  literary  men  of  his  time  De  Foe  stands 
apart.  The  rest  were  united  by  bonds  of  friendship  and 
interest.  Pope,  Gay,  and  Swift  were  warm  friends;  Addi- 
son and  Steele  are  almost  inseparable  in  our  thoughts.  It 
is  true  that  there  was  once  a  quarrel  and  some  coldness 
between  Pope  and  Addison  ;  but  they  still  belonged  to  the 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  259 

same  set,  and  were  of  one  brotherhood.  They  were  all, 
except  De  Foe,  members  of  the  Scriblerus  Club ;  they  hob- 
nobbed together  at  Will's  Coffee-house.  But  De  Foe  stands 
aloof,  an  object  of  ridicule  and  dislike.  Pope  satirized 
him  in  the  Viniciad ;  Gay  laughed  at  him  ;  the  Scriblerus 
Club  thought  very  poorly  of  his  writings  ;  and  by  those  men 
who  should  have  recognized  him  as  their  peer  and  com- 
panion, he  was  underrated  and  disregarded.  For  this,  as 
well  as  for  the  gratitude  we  feel  to  the  author  of  Robinson 
Crusoe,  our  hearts  warm  with  sympathy  towards  De  Foe, 
the  author  of  that  immortal  book  of  our  childhood. 

But  De  Foe  has  other  heroes,  besides  Robinson  Crusoe, 
whose  fortunes  we  follow  with  breathless  interest  through  a 
whole  volume.  One  of  these  is  Colonel  Jack,  a  poor  boy, 
deserted  in  infancy  by  heartless  parents,  and  given  over  to 
a  nurse,  at  whose  death  he  is  thrown  helpless  and  alone  on 
the  streets  of  London.  Without  a  roof  over  his  head,  he 
lives  as  he  can,  and  thinks  himself  happy  when,  on  a  win- 
ter's night,  he  finds  lodging  in  the  warm  ashes  and  cinders 
of  a  glass  manufactory,  where  he  finds  a  crowd  of  boys  as 
wretched  as  himself,  who  come  there  to  sleep.  Here  he 
meets  with  an  older  boy,  a  young  pickpocket,  precocious  in 
crime,  who  undertakes  to  teach  little  Jack  a  trade  by  which 
he  can  live  like  a  prince.  There  are  few  stories  more  touch- 
ing than  that  of  the  poor  boy's  first  beginnings  in  crime. 
It  reminds  me  very  much  of  the  story  of  Oliver  Twist,  and 
his  adventure  with  the  Artful  Dodger,  in  Charles  Dickens's 
novel.  But  I  shall  let  Jack  tell  a  part  of  his  story  in  his 
own  words :  — 

COLONEL   jack's    FIRST   EXPERIENCE   IN    CRIME. 

"Well,  upon  the  persuasions  of  this  lad,  I  walked  out  with 
him,  a  poor  innocent  boy,  and  (as  I  remember  my  very  thoughts 
perfectly  well)  I  had  no  evil  in  my  intentions.  I  had  never  stolen 
anything  in  my  life ;  and  if  a  goldsmith  had  left  me  in  his  shop 
with  heaps  of  money  strewed  all  round  me,  and  bade  me  look 
after  it,  I  should  not  have  touched  it,  I  was  so  honest ;  but  the 
subtle  tempter  baited  his  Iiook  for  me,  as  I  was  a  child,  in  a 
manner  suitable  to  my  childishness,  for  I  never  took  this  picking 


260  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

of  pockets  to  be  dishonesty  ;  but,  as  I  have  said  before,  I  looked 
on  it  as  a  kind  of  trade  that  I  was  to  be  bred  up  to,  and  so  I 
entered  upon  it  till  I  became  hardened  in  it  beyond  the  power 
of  retreating;  and  thus  I  was  made  a  thief  involuntarily,  and 
went  on  a  length  that  few  boys  do  without  coming  to  the  com- 
mon period  of  that  kind  of  life,  I  mean  to  the  transport-ship  or 
to  the  gallows. 

"The  first  day  I  went  abroad  with  my  new  instructor,  he 
carried  me  directly  into  the  city;  and  as  we  went  first  to  the 
water-side,  he  led  me  into  the  long  room  at  the  custom-house. 
We  were  but  a  couple  of  ragged  boys  at  best,  but  I  was  much 
the  worse  ;  my  leader  had  a  shirt,  a  hat  and  a  neckcloth  ;  as  for 
me,  I  had  neither  of  the  three,  nor  had  I  spoiled  my  manners 
so  much  as  to  have  a  hat  on  my  head  since  my  nurse  died, 
which  was  now  some  years.  His  orders  to  me  were  to  keep 
always  in  sight  and  near  him,  but  not  close  to  him  ;  nor  to  take 
any  notice  of  him  at  any  time  till  he  came  to  me;  and  if  any 
hurly-burly  happened,  I  should  by  no  means  know  him,  or  pre- 
tend to  have  anything  to  do  with  him.  I  observed  my  orders 
to  a  tittle,  while  he  peered  into  every  corner,  and  had  his  eye 
upon  everybody.  I  had  my  eye  directly  upon  him,  but  went 
always  at  a  distance,  looking  as  it  were  for  pins,  and  picking 
them  up  out  of  the  dust  as  I  found  them,  and  then  sticking  them 
on  my  sleeve,  where  I  had  at  last  got  forty  or  fifty  good  pins  ;  but 
still  my  eye  was  upon  my  comrade,  who,  I  observed,  was  very 
busy  among  the  crowds  of  people  that  stood  at  the  board  doing 
business  with  the  officers. 

"  At  length  he  comes  over  to  me  and  stooping,  as  if  he  would 
take  up  a  pin  close  to  me,  he  put  something  into  my  hand 
and  said,  'Put  that  up,  and  follow  me  downstairs  quickly;' 
he  did  not  run,  but  shuffled  along  apace  through  the  crowd, 
and  went  down,  —  not  the  great  stairs  which  we  came  in  at, 
but  a  little  narrow  staircase  at  the  other  end  of  the  long  room. 
I  followed,  and  he  found  I  did,  and  so  went  on,  not  stopping 
below  as  I  expected,  nor  speaking  one  word  to  me,  till  through 
innumerable  narrow  passages,  alleys,  and  dark  ways,  we 
were  got  up  into  Fenchurcli  Street,  and  througli  Billiter  Lane 
into  Leadenhall  Street,  and  from  thence  into  Leadenhall 
Market." 

In  a  quiet  place  in  the  market,  it  not  being  market-day, 
the  two  boys  look  over  the  spoil  which  the  elder  thief  has 
thus  thrust  into  little  Jack's  hands.  It  is  a  gentleman's  letter- 
case,  full  of  checks  and  bills,  besides  many  private  notes. 


ON-  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  26 1 

Most  of  the  bills  are  too  large  for  them,  but  they  find  one 
note,  the  smallest  of  all,  which  the  elder  presents  for  pay- 
ment, and  gets  the  money  on  it.  Then  they  divide  the  spoil, 
and  Jack  gets  his  share.  From  that  hour  trouble  begins 
with  the  poor  little  vagabond.  He  has  no  place  to  put  his 
money ;  his  ragged  pockets  are  full  of  holes,  and  he  has  no 
roof  over  his  head,  no  box,  drawer,  or  any  crevice  to  hide 
his  gains  in. 

"  Nothing  could  be  more  perplexing  than  this  money  was  to 
me  all  that  night.  I  carried  it  in  my  hand  a  good  while,  for  it 
was  in  gold,  all  but  fourteen  shillings;  and  that  is  to  say  it  was 
in  four  guineas,  and  that  fourteen  shillings  was  more  difficult 
to  carry  than  four  guineas.  At  last  I  sat  down  and  pulled  off 
one  of  my  shoes  and  put  the  four  guineas  into  that,  but  after 
I  had  gone  a  while  my  shoe  hurt  me  so  that  I  could  not  go  on  ; 
so  I  was  fain  to  sit  down  again  and  take  it  out  of  my  shoe  and 
carry  it  in  my  hand ;  then  I  found  a  dirty  linen  rag  in  the  street, 
and  I  took  that  up  and  wrapped  it  up  together,  and  carried  it  in 
that  a  good  way.  I  have  often  since  heard  people  say  when 
they  have  been  talking  of  money  that  they  could  not  get  in, 
'  I  wish  I  had  it  in  a  foul  clout.'  In  truth  I  had  mine  in  a  foul 
clout,  for  it  was  foul  according  to  the  letter  of  that  saying  ;  but 
it  served  me  till  I  came  to  a  convenient  place,  and  then  I  sat 
down  and  washed  the  cloth  in  the  kennel,  and  so  then  put  my 
money  in  again.  Well,  I  carried  it  home  with  me  to  my  lodg- 
ing in  the  glass  house,  and  when  I  went  to  go  to  sleep  I  knew 
not  what  to  do  with  it.  If  I  had  let  any  of  the  black  crew  I 
was  with  know  of  it,  I  should  have  been  smothered  in  the  ashes 
for  it,  or  robbed  of  it,  or  some  trick  or  other  put  upon  me  for  it; 
so  I  knew  not  what  to  do,  but  lay  with  it  in  my  hand,  and  my 
hand  in  my  bosom,  but  then  sleep  went  from  my  eyes.  Oh, 
the  weight  of  human  care !  I,  a  poor  beggar  boy  could  not 
sleep  as  soon  as  I  had  but  a  little  money  to  keep,  who  before 
that,  could  have  slept  upon  a  heap  of  brick-bats,  stones,  or  cin- 
ders or  anywhere,  as  sound  as  a  rich  man  does  on  his  down 
bed,  and  sounder  too. 

"  Every  now  and  then,  dropping  asleep,  I  would  dream  that 
my  money  was  lost,  and  start  like  one  frighted  ;  then,  finding  it 
fast  in  my  hand,  try  to  go  to  sleep  again,  but  could  not  for 
a  long  while;  then  start  and  drop  again.  At  last  a  fancy  came 
into  my  head  that  if  I  fell  asleep  I  should  dream  of  the  money 
and  talk  of  it  in  my  sleep,  and  tell  that  I  had  money;  which  if 


262  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

I  should  do  and  one  of  the  rogues  should  hear  me,  they  would 
pick  it  out  of  my  bosom,  and  out  of  my  hand  without  waking 
me;  and  after  that  thought  I  could  not  sleep  a  wink  more;  so 
that  I  passed  tliat  night  over  in  care  and  anxiety  enough;  and 
this,  I  may  safely  say,  was  the  first  night's  rest  that  I  lost  by 
the  cares  of  this  life  and  the  deceitfulness  of  riches. 

"  As  soon  as  it  was  day,  I  got  out  of  the  hole  we  lay  in,  and 
rambled  abroad  in  the  fields  towards  Stepney,  and  there  I 
mused  and  considered  what  I  should  do  with  this  money,  and 
many  a  time  I  wished  I  had  not  had  it;  for  after  all  my  rumi- 
nating upon  it,  and  what  course  I  should  take  with  it,  or  where 
I  should  put  it,  I  could  not  hit  upon  any  one  thing,  or  any  pos- 
sible method  to  secure  it,  and  it  perplexed  me  so  that  at  last, 
as  I  said  just  now,  I  sat  down  and  cried  heartily. 

"  When  my  crying  was  over,  the  case  was  the  same.  I  had 
the  money  still,  and  what  to  do  with  it  I  could  not  tell.  At  last 
it  came  into  my  head  that  I  would  look  out  for  some  hole  in  a 
tree,  and  see  to  hide  it  there  till  I  should  have  occasion  for  it. 
Big  with  this  discovery,  as  I  then  thought  it,  I  began  to  look 
for  a  tree  ;  but  there  were  no  trees  in  the  fields  about  Stepney 
or  Mile-End  that  looked  fit  for  my  purpose;  and  if  there  were 
any  that  I  began  to  look  narrowly  at,  the  fields  were  so  full  of 
people  that  they  would  see  if  1  went  to  hide  anything  there, 
and  I  thought  the  people  eyed  me,  as  it  were,  and  that  two  men 
in  particular  followed  me  to  see  what  I  intended  to  do. 

"  This  drove  me  further  off,  and  I  crossed  the  road  at  Mile- 
End,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  town  went  down  a  lane  that  goes 
away  to  the  Blind  Beggar's  in  Bethnal  Green;  when  I  came  a 
little  way  in  the  lane,  I  found  a  foot-path  over  the  fields,  and  in 
those  fields  several  trees  for  my  turn,  as  I  thought ;  at  last  one 
tree  had  a  little  hole  in  it,  pretty  high  out  of  my  reach,  and  I 
climbed  up  the  tree  to  get  it,  and  when  I  came  there,  I  put  my 
hand  in,  and  found,  as  I  thought,  a  place  very  fit.  So  I  placed 
my  treasure  there  and  was  mightily  well  satisfied  with  it;  but, 
behold,  putting  my  hand  in  to  lay  it  more  commodiously,  as  I 
thought,  of  a  sudden  it  slipped  away  from  me,  and  I  found  the 
tree  was  hollow,  and  my  little  parcel  was  fallen  in  quite  out  of 
my  reach,  and  how  far  it  might  go  in  I  knew  not,  so  that  in  a 
word  my  money  was  quite  gone,  irrevocably  lost ;  there  could 
be  no  room  as  much  as  to  hope  ever  to  get  it  again,  for  it  was 
a  vast,  great  tree. 

"As  young  as  I  was,  I  was  now  sensible  what  a  fool  I  was 
before,  that  I  could  not  think  of  ways  to  keep  my  money,  but 
I  must  come  thus  far  to  throw  it  into  a  hole  where  I  could  not 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  263 

reach  it.  Well,  I  thrust  my  hand  quite  up  to  my  elbow,  but 
no  bottom  was  to  be  found,  or  any  end  of  the  hole  or  cavity; 
I  got  a  stick  of  the  tree,  and  thrust  it  in  a  great  way,  but  all 
was  one.  Then  I  cried,  nay,  roared  out,  I  was  in  such  a  pas- 
sion ;  then  I  got  down  the  tree  again,  then  up  again  ;  I  thrust 
in  my  hand  again  till  I  scratched  my  arm  and  made  it  bleed, 
and  cried  all  the  while  most  violently  ;  then  I  began  to  think 
I  had  not  so  much  as  a  halfpenny  left  for  a  halfpenny  roll,  and 
I  was  hungry,  and  then  I  cried  again ;  then  I  came  away  in 
despair,  crying  and  roaring  like  a  little  boy  that  had  been 
whipped;  then  I  went  back  again  to  the  tree  and  up  the  tree 
again,  and  this  I  did  several  times. 

"The  last  time  I  had  gotten  up  the  tree  I  happened  to  come 
down  not  on  the  same  side  that  I  went  up  and  came  down  before, 
but  on  the  other  side  of  the  tree,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the 
bank  also ;  and  behold  the  tree  had  a  great  open  place  in  the  side 
of  it  close  to  the  ground,  as  old  hollow  trees  often  have  ;  and, 
looking  into  the  open  place,  to  my  inexpressible  joy  there  lay 
my  money  and  my  linen  rag,  all  wrapped  up  just  as  I  had  put  it 
into  the  hole ;  for,  the  tree  being  hollow  all  the  way  up,  there 
had  been  some  moss  or  light  stuff,  which  I  had  not  judgment 
enough  to  know  was  not  firm,  and  had  given  way  when  it  came 
to  drop  out  of  my  hand,  and  so  it  had  slipped  quite  down  at 
once.     .     .     . 

"  It  would  tire  the  reader  should  I  dwell  on  all  the  little 
boyish  tricks  that  I  played  in  the  ecstasy  of  my  joy  and  satis- 
faction when  I  found  my  money.  Joy  is  as  extravagant  as 
grief;  and  since  I  've  been  a  man  I  have  often  thought  that  had 
such  a  thing  befallen  a  man  so  to  have  lost  all  he  had,  and  not 
have  a  bit  of  bread  to  eat,  and  then  so  strangely  to  find  it  again, 
after  having  given  it  effectually  over,  —  I  say,  had  it  been  so 
with  a  man,  it  might  have  hazarded  his  using  some  violence 
upon  himself." 

We  cannot  follow  any  further  in  detail  the  fortunes  of 
little  Jack.  Before  he  gets  deep  enough  in  his  career  of  a 
pickpocket  to  be  arrested  by  the  law,  he  is  kidnapped  by 
the  captain  of  a  vessel  who  has  given  him  some  drugged 
liquor,  and,  while  insensible,  he  is  carried  off  to  the  colony 
of  Virginia,  in  America,  where  he  is  sold  to  a  master,  an 
English  planter  who  is  cultivating  lands  in  these  new  colonies 
belonging  to  England.  The  time  of  servitude  for  which  he 
is  sold  is  five  years,  and,  after  he  recovers  his  hberty,  Jack 


264  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

manages  so  well  that  he  himself  becomes  a  landholder  and 
a  prosperous  man,  and  ends  his  story  in  great  peace  and 
contentment. 

During  his  period  of  imprisonment  in  Newgate,  De  Foe 
began  the  publication  of  a  sort  of  journal  called  iht  Revie^a, 
published  twice  a  week,  which  was  somewhat  on  the  plan 
of  the  modern  newspaper.  In  this  he  gave  such  news, 
foreign  and  native,  as  he  could  get  hold  of,  and  criticisms 
on  politics  at  home  and  abroad.  Finding  that  politics 
alone  would  not  interest  his  readers,  he  formed  the  idea  of 
a  Scandal  Club,  whose  members  should  discuss  all  the 
topics  of  the  day  in  his  paper.  Like  most  of  De  Foe's 
works,  the  Reviezv  has  passed  into  obscurity ;  but  I  refer  to 
it  because  this  was  the  forerunner  of  The  Tatler,  The  Spec- 
tator, and  other  series  written  by  the  two  famous  English 
writers  who  are  the  subjects  of  our  next  Talk. 


XXXVIIT. 

On  Addison  and  Steele,  Editors  of  "The  Spectator." 

THE  names  of  Joseph  Addison  and  Richard  Steele  are 
almost  as  closely  intenvoven  in  friendship  as  those 
1672-1719  "^  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  their  lives  were 
united  for  a  much  longer  period  than  those  of 
1671-1729  ^j^g  ^^Q  dramatists.  They  were  schoolboys  to- 
gether in  the  Charterhouse  School,  —  Addison  the  head 
boy  in  his  class,  grave,  studious,  painstaking ;  Steele  a 
merry  youngster  who  got  whipped  as  often  as  praised,  and 
was  gay  and  light-hearted  in  spite  of  the  rod  and  his  un- 
mastered  lessons.  There  was  always  the  same  difference 
between  them  in  after  life,  and  to  the  last  of  his  days 
Steele  seemed  to  regard  Addison  with  the  same  sort  of 
awe  he  had  felt  for  the  boy  who  was  always  above  him  in 
school. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  265 

Joseph  Addison  was  one  of  the  most  gifted  men  of  his 
age.  He  wrote  sufficiently  well  in  college  to  attract  atten- 
tion, and  almost  as  soon  as  he  left  his  studies  he  was 
offered  a  position  in  public  life.  But  politics  did  not  suit 
his  taste,  and  he  came  back  to  his  books  and  his  pen 
rather  soured  and  disappointed  by  his  experience.  His 
earlier  works  were  nearly  all  of  them  in  verse,  and  his  first 
success  was  the  tragedy  of  Cato,  which  had  a  run  at  the 
theatre  only  equalled  by  Gay's  Beggar's  Opera.  But  it  was 
as  a  prose-writer,  and  particularly  as  the  writer  of  prose 
essays,  that  Addison  made  his  reputation. 

It  was  Steele,  not  Addison,  who  began  the  enterprise 
that  made  them  both  honored  among  English  essayists. 
While  Addison  had  been  trying  political  hfe,  Steele  had 
enlisted  as  a  soldier,  beginning  at  the  very  bottom  of  the 
military  ladder,  but  rising  rapidly  in  the  scale  of  promo- 
tion, largely  from  his  personal  popularity.  After  he  entered 
the  army  he  discovered  his  gifts  as  a  writer.  In  the  midst 
of  a  wild  career  he  was  suddenly  checked  by  a  burst  of 
repentance,  in  which  he  wrote  a  tract  called  the  Christian 
Hero,  which  excited  the  amazement  of  his  comrades  that 
a  man  who  practised  so  badly  could  preach  so  well.  Very 
soon  after  this  he  wrote  a  brilliant  comedy,  The  Funeral, 
or  Grief  a  la  Mode.  The  Christian  Hero  had  given  him 
a  reputation  for  piety  which,  as  he  says,  he  felt  he  did  not 
deserve,  and  so  he  struck  the  balance  by  a  ratding  comedy. 
This  was  characteristic  of  good-natured  Dick  Steele,  who 
was  never  moderate  in  anything,  and,  as  he  says,  "was 
always  sinning  and  repenting." 

This  first  comedy  was  followed  by  others,  which  gave  him 
a  reputation  as  a  man  of  wit  and  genius.  He  had  arrived 
at  middle  age,  and  was  living  in  London,  a  gay  man  of  the 
world,  a  frequenter  of  clubs,  welcome  in  the  best  society, 
a  man  well  fitted  to  hold  the  mirror  up  to  the  virtues  for 
which  he  had  a  hearty  respect,  and  the  vices  he  was  never 
quite  strong  enough  to  withstand,  when  the  idea  of  The 
Tatlcr  came  to  him. 

The  Tailer  was   in  plan   not   unlike  De  Foe's  Review 


266  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

It  was  a  tri-weekly  paper,  with  a  small  portion  devoted  to 
news ;  but  the  larger  part  of  its  space  was  given  to  a  daily 
essay  on  subjects  most  interesting  to  its  readers. 

These  essays  were  in  the  main  on  social  topics;  they 
criticised  reigning  follies  in  taste  and  manners  ;  they  ex- 
alted what  was  best  and  noblest  in  human  nature ;  "  they 
advocated  a  general  simplicity  in  dress,  conversation,  and 
behavior,"  The  purpose  was  good,  and  there  are  few 
literary  works  which  have  had  so  wholesome  and  so  imme- 
diate an  influence  on  the  time  as  these  essays  of  Steele 
and  Addison. 

Addison  was  in  Ireland  when  Steele  began  this  new  en- 
terprise ;  but  he  thought,  on  first  seeing  it,  that  he  recog- 
nized Steele's  hand  in  The  Tatler;  and  convinced  that  this 
mode  of  writing  was  the  one  of  all  others  best  suited  to 
his  own  genius,  he  sent  some  contributions  to  Steele.  The 
Tatler  lived  about  two  years,  and  when  it  was  dropped, 
it  was  almost  immediately  succeeded  by  The  Spectator,  in 
which  the  two  friends  united  as  partners  in  full,  writing 
nearly  an  equal  share.  This  is  the  longest  sustained  and 
the  most  famous  of  all  their  papers.  For  the  greater  part 
of  the  time  it  was  issued  daily,  and  was  published  solely  as 
a  series  of  essays,  without  news  or  politics.  It  was  followed 
by  The  Guardian  and  by  two  or  three  other  journals, 
none  of  them  so  long-lived  or  successful  as  7he  Spectator, 
and  that  stands  as  the  chief  among  all  works  of  its  kind. 

I  know  at  this  day  no  more  delightful  reading  than  The 
Spectator.  Addison  and  Steele  formed  just  such  an  admir- 
able contrast  to  each  other  as  would  make  the  papers  a 
constant  variety.  Addison,  more  profound  and  thoughtful 
than  Steele,  had  a  fund  of  quaint  humor,  a  litde  satirical, 
which  touched  genially  but  keenly  on  all  the  follies  of  the 
time.  He  was  also  a  critic  of  merit,  and  his  series  of 
essays  on  Milton  in  The  Spectator  drew  attention  to  the 
unheeded  beauty  of  Paradise  Lost.  Steele,  with  less  judg- 
ment than  Addison,  had  abundant  wit  and  pathos,  and 
could  move  to  tears  and  laughter.  They  also  worked 
readily  together  on  one  conception,  as  did  Beaumont  and 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  267 

Fletcher.  The  delightful  characters  of  the  Spectator's  Club, 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  Will  Honeycomb,  Captain  Sentry, 
and  the  rest,  were  first  drawn  by  Steele  ;  but  Addison  en- 
tered fully  into  his  conception  of  them,  and  made  Sir 
Roger  one  of  his  favorite  characters,  adding  to  him  some 
of  those  traits  that  make  the  dear  old  gentleman  so  delight- 
ful to  those  who  have  ever  read  77^1?  Spectator. 

I  have  just  hinted  that  Steele  was  not  moderate  either  in 
his  good  or  bad  qualities,  —  he  was  always  at  an  extreme  in 
both ;  but  as  an  offset  to  his  vices,  he  had  always  generous 
and  noble  words  for  woman.  Up  to  his  time,  little  appeal 
had  been  made  to  the  higher  virtues  in  woman,  and  the 
fashionable  comedies  painted  her  as  a  creature  without  heart 
or  brains.  The  service  Steele  did  in  writing  for  women 
and  about  them  as  if  they  were  reasonable  beings,  is  one 
of  the  best  traits  of  his  essays.  As  one  of  his  character- 
istic pieces  of  writing,  I  have  selected  for  your  reading, 
Paper  XXXIII.  of  The  Spectator:  — 


THE   STORY    OF   L^ETITIA   AND    DAPHNE,    OR   THE   ART   OF 
IMPROVIXG   BEAUTY. 

A  friend  of  mine  has  two  daughters,  whom  I  will  call  Lastitia 
and  Daphne ;  the  former  is  one  of  the  greatest  beauties  of  the 
age  in  which  she  lives,  the  latter  no  way  remarkable  for  any 
charms  in  her  person.  Upon  this  one  circumstance  of  their 
outward  form  the  good  and  ill  of  their  life  seems  to  turn.  Lsti- 
tia  has  not,  from  her  very  childhood,  heard  anything  else  but 
commendations  of  her  features  and  complexion,  by  which 
means  she  is  no  other  than  nature  made  her,  —  a  very  beautiful 
outside.  The  consciousness  of  her  charms  has  rendered  her 
insupportably  vain  and  insolent  towards  all  who  have  to  do 
with  her.  Daphne,  who  was  almost  twenty  before  one  civil 
thing  had  been  said  to  her,  found  herself  obliged  to  acquire 
some  accomplishments  to  make  up  for  the  want  of  those  attrac- 
tions which  she  saw  in  her  sister.  Poor  Daphne  was  seldom 
admitted  to  a  debate  wherein  she  was  concerned  ;  her  discourse 
had  nothing  to  recommend  it  but  the  good  sense  of  it,  and  she 
was  always  under  a  necessity  to  have  very  well  considered  what 
she  was  to  say  before  she  uttered  it;  while  Lastitia  was  listened 
to  with  partiality,  and  approbation  sat  in  the  countenances  of 


268  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

those  she  conversed  with,  before  she  communicated  what  she 
had  to  say.  These  causes  have  produced  suitable  effects,  and 
Lastitia  is  as  insipid  a  companion  as  Daphne  is  an  agreeable 
one.  Lstitia,  confident  of  favor,  has  studied  no  arts  to  please ; 
Daphne,  despairing  of  any  inclination  towards  her  person,  has 
only  depended  on  her  merit.  La,'tilia  has  always  something  in 
her  air  that  is  sullen,  grave,  and  disconsolate.  Daphne  has  a 
countenance  that  appears  cheerful,  open,  and  unconcerned.  A 
young  gentleman  saw  Laetitia  this  winter  at  a  pla}-,  and  became 
her  captive.  His  fortune  was  such  that  he  wanted  very  little 
introduction  to  speak  his  sentiments  to  her  father.  The  lover 
was  admitted  with  the  utmost  freedom  into  the  family,  where 
a  constrained  behavior,  severe  looks,  and  distant  civilities 
were  the  highest  favors  he  could  obtain  from  La?titia;  while 
Daphne  used  him  with  the  good  humor,  familiarity,  and  in- 
nocence of  a  sister,  insomuch  that  he  would  often  say  to  her, 
"  Dear  Daphne,  wcrt  thou  but  as  handsome  as  Laetitia."  She 
received  such  language  with  that  ingenuous  and  pleasing  mirth 
which  is  natural  to  a  woman  without  design.  He  still  sighed  in 
vain  for  Laetitia,  but  found  certain  relief  in  the  agreeable  con- 
versation of  Daphne.  At  length,  heartily  tired  with  the  haughty 
impertinence  of  Laetitia,  and  charmed  with  the  repeated  in- 
stances of  good  humor  he  had  observed  in  Daphne,  he  one  day 
told  the  latter  that  he  had  something  to  say  to  her  that  he 
hoped  she  would  be  pleased  with,  — "  Faith,  Daphne,"  con- 
tinued he,  "  I  am  in  love  with  thee,  and  despise  thy  sister  sin- 
cerely." The  manner  of  his  declaring  himself  gave  his  mistress 
occasion  for  a  very  hearty  laughter.  "  Nay,"  said  he,  "  I  knew 
you  would  laugh  at  me,  but  I  will  ask  your  father."  He  did 
so;  the  father  received  his  intelligence  with  no  less  joy  than 
surprise,  and  was  very  glad :  he  had  no  care  now  left  but  for 
his  beauty,  which  he  thought  he  could  carry  to  market  at  his 
leisure.  I  do  not  know  anything  that  has  pleased  me  so  much 
in  a  great  while  as  this  conquest  of  my  friend  Daphne's.  All 
her  acquaintance  congratulate  her  upon  her  chance-medley,  and 
laugh  at  that  premeditating  murderer,  her  sister.  As  it  is  an 
argument  of  a  light  mind  to  think  the  worse  of  ourselves  for 
the  imperfection  of  our  persons,  it  is  equally  below  us  to  value 
ourselves  upon  the  advantages  of  them.  The  female  world 
seems  to  be  almost  incorrigibly  gone  astray  in  this  particular, 
for  which  reason  I  sliall  recommend  the  following  extract  out 
of  a  friend's  letter  to  the  professed  beauties,  who  are,  as  a 
people,  almost  as  insufferable  as  the  professed  wits  :  — 

•'  M.  St.  Evremond    has  concluded  one  of   his  essays  with 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  269 

affirming  that  the  last  sighs  of  a  handsome  woman  are  not  so 
much  for  the  loss  of  her  Hfe  as  of  her  beauty.  Perhaps  this 
raillery  is  pursued  too  far  ;  yet  it  is  turned  upon  a  very  obvious 
remark,  that  woman's  strongest  passion  is  for  her  own  beauty, 
and  that  she  values  it  as  her  favorite  distinction.  From  hence 
it  is  that  all  arts  which  pretend  to  improve  or  preserve  it  meet 
with  so  general  a  reception  among  the  sex.  To  say  nothing  of 
many  false  helps  and  contraband  wares  of  beauty  which  are 
daily  vended  in  this  great  mart,  there  is  not  a  maiden  gentle- 
woman of  a  good  family  in  any  county  of  South  Britain  who 
has  not  heard  of  the  virtues  of  May-dew,  or  is  unfurnished  with 
some  receipt  or  other  in  favor  of  her  complexion ;  and  I  have 
known  a  physician  of  learning  and  sense,  after  eight  years' 
study  in  the  University,  and  a  course  of  travels  in  most  coun- 
tries in  Europe,  owe  the  first  raising  of  his  fortunes  to  a 
cosmetic  wash. 

"This  has  given  me  occasion  to  consider  how  so  universal  a 
disposition  in  womankind,  which  springs  from  a  laudable  motive, 
the  desire  of  pleasing,  and  proceeds  upon  an  opinion  not  alto- 
gether groundless,  that  nature  may  be  helped  by  art,  may  be 
turned  to  their  advantage.  And,  methinks,  it  would  be  an  ac- 
ceptable service  to  take  them  out  of  the  hands  of  quacks  and 
pretenders,  and  to  prevent  their  imposing  on  themselves,  by 
discovering  to  them  the  true  secret  and  art  of  improving 
beauty. 

"  In  order  to  do  this,  before  I  touch  upon  it  directly,  it  will 
be  necessary  to  lay  down  a  few  preliminary  maxims,  viz. : 

"That  no  woman  can  be  handsome  by  the  force  of  features 
alone,  any  more  than  she  can  be  witty  only  by  the  help  of 
speech. 

"  That  pride  destroys  all  symmetry  and  grace,  and  affectation 
is  a  more  terrible  enemy  to  fine  faces  than  the  small-pox. 

"That  no  woman  is  capable  of  being  beautiful  who  is  not 
incapable  of  being  false. 

"  And  that  what  would  be  odious  in  a  friend  is  deformity  in 
a  mistress. 

"  From  these  few  principles  thus  laid  down,  it  will  be  easy  to 
prove  that  the  true  art  of  assisting  beauty  consists  in  embellish- 
ing the  whole  person  by  the  proper  ornaments  of  virtuous  and 
commendable  qualities.  By  this  help  alone  it  is  that  tliose  who 
are  the  favorite  works  of  nature,  or,  as  Mr.  Dryden  expresses 
it,  the  porcelain  clay  of  humankind,  become  animated,  and  are 
in  a  capacity  of  exerting  their  charms;  and  those  who  seem 
to  have  been  neglected  by  her,  like  models  wrought  in  haste, 


270  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

are  capable  in  a  great  measure  of  finisliing  what  she  has  left 
imperfect. 

"  It  is,  methinks,  a  low  and  degrading  idea  of  that  sex,  which 
was  created  to  refine  the  joys  and  soften  tlie  cares  of  humanity, 
to  consider  them  merely  as  objects  of  sight.  This  is  abridging 
them  of  the  natural  extent  of  their  power,  to  put  them  on  a 
level  with  the  pictures  at  Kneller's.  How  much  nobler  is  the 
contemplation  of  beauty,  heightened  by  virtue,  and  command- 
ing our  esteem  and  love,  while  it  draws  our  observation!  How 
faint  and  spiritless  are  the  charms  of  a  coquette,  when  compared 
with  the  real  loveliness  of  Sophronia's  innocence,  piety,  good 
humor,  and  truth,  —  virtues  which  add  a  new  softness  to  her 
sex,  and  even  beautify  her  beauty  !  That  agreeableness  which 
must  otherwise  have  appeared  no  longer  in  the  modest  virgin  is 
now  preserved  in  the  tender  mother,  the  prudent  friend,  and  the 
faithful  wife.  Colors  artfully  spread  upon  canvas  may  enter- 
tain the  eye,  but  not  affect  the  heart;  and  she  who  takes  no 
care  to  add  to  the  natural  graces  of  her  person  any  excelling 
qualities  may  be  still  allowed  to  amuse  as  a  picture,  but  not  to 
triumph  as  a  beauty." 


XXXIX. 

On  Joseph  Addison's  Essays. 

THERE  are  so  many  noble  pieces  of  writing  among 
Addison's  essays  that  one  hesitates  in  choosing  an 
extract.  I  advise  every  one  to  keep  a  volume  of  IVie 
Spectator  at  hand,  and  cull  for  himself.  In  the  mean  time, 
I  will  give  some  short  extracts  which  show  in  brief  the 
variety  of  his  humor,  and  how  easily  he  passes  from  grave 
to  gay,  from  lively  to  severe. 
The  first  is  from  — 

POPULAR   SUPERSTITIONS. 

"Going  yesterday  to  dine  with  an  old  acquaintance,  I  had  the 
misfortune  to  find  his  whole  family  very  much  dejected.  Upon 
asking  liim  the  occasion  of  it,  he  told  me  that  his  wife  had 
dreamt   a  strange   dream  the  night   before,  which  they  were 


OM  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  2/1 

afraid  portended  some  misfortune  to  themselves  or  to  their 
children.  At  her  comin<j  into  the  room  I  observed  a  settled 
melancholy  in  her  countenance,  v/hich  I  should  have  been 
troubled  for  had  I  not  heard  from  whence  it  proceeded.  We 
were  no  sooner  sat  down,  but  after  having  looked  upon  me  a 
little  while,  '  My  dear,'  says  she,  turning  to  her  husband,  '  you 
may  now  see  the  stranger  that  was  in  the  candle  last  night.' 
Soon  after  this,  as  they  began  to  talk  of  family  affairs,  a  little 
boy  at  the  lower  end  of  the  table  told  her  that  he  was  to  go  into 
join-hand  on  Thursday.  '  Thursday  ! '  says  she.  *  No,  child, 
if  it  please  God  you  shall  not  begin  upon  Childermas  day;  tell 
your  writing-master  that  Friday  will  be  soon  enough.'  I  was 
reflecting  with  myself  upon  the  oddness  of  her  fancy,  and 
wondering  that  anybody  could  establish  it  as  a  rule  to  lose  a 
day  in  every  week.  In  the  midst  of  these  my  musings,  she 
desired  me  to  reach  her  a  little  salt  upon  the  point  of  my  knife, 
which  I  did  in  such  a  trepidation  and  hurry  of  obedience  that 
I  let  it  drop  by  the  way ;  at  which  she  immediately  started,  and 
said  it  fell  towards  her.  Upon  this  I  looked  very  blank,  and 
observing  the  concern  of  the  whole  table,  began  to  consider  my- 
self, with  some  confusion,  as  a  person  that  had  brought  a  dis- 
aster upon  the  family.  The  lady,  however,  recovering  herself 
after  a  little  space,  said  to  her  husband,  with  a  sigh,  '  My  dear, 
misfortunes  never  come  single.'  My  friend,  I  found,  acted  but 
an  under  part  at  his  table,  and  being  a  man  of  more  good-nature 
than  understanding,  thinks  himself  obliged  to  fall  in  with  all 
the  passions  and  humors  of  his  yoke-fellow.  '  Do  not  you  re- 
member, child,' says  she,  'that  the  pigeon-house  fell  the  very 
afternoon  that  our  careless  wench  spilt  the  salt  upon  the  table?' 
'Yes,'  says  he,  'my  dear,  and  the  next  post  brought  us  an  ac- 
count of  the  battle  of  Almanza.'  The  reader  may  guess  at  the 
figure  I  made  after  having  done  all  this  mischief.  I  despatched 
my  dinner  as  soon  as  I  could,  with  my  usual  taciturnity,  when, 
to  my  utter  confusion,  the  lady,  seeing  me  quitting  my  knife  and 
fork,  and  laying  them  across  one  another  on  my  plate,  desired 
me  that  I  would  humor  her  so  far  as  to  take  them  out  of  that 
figure  and  place  them  side  by  side.  What  the  absurdity  was 
which  I  had  committed,  I  did  not  know;  but  I  suppose  there 
was  some  traditionary  superstition  in  it,  and  therefore,  in  obe- 
dience to  the  lady  of  the  house,  I  disposed  of  my  knife  and 
fork  in  two  parallel  lines,  which  is  the  figure  I  shall  always  lay 
them  for  the  future,  though  I  do  not  know  any  reason  for  it. 

"  It  is  not  difficult  for  a  man  to  see  that  a  person  has  con- 
ceived an  aversion  to  him.     For  my  own  part,  I  quickly  found, 


272  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

by  the  lady's  looks,  that  she  regarded  me  as  a  very  odd  kind  of 
fellow,  with  an  unfortunate  aspect.  For  which  reason  I  took 
my  leave  immediately  after  dinner,  and  withdrew  to  my  old 
lodgings.  Upon  my  return  home  I  fell  into  a  profound  con- 
templation on  the  evils  that  attend  these  superstitious  follies  of 
mankind;  how  they  subject  us  to  imaginary  afflictions,  and 
additional  sorrows  that  do  not  properly  come  with  our  lot.  As 
if  the  natural  calamities  of  life  were  not  enough  for  it,  we  turn 
the  most  indifferent  circumstances  into  misfortune,  and  suffer 
as  much  from  trifling  accidents  as  from  real  evils.  I  have 
known  the  shooting  of  a  star  spoil  a  night's  rest,  and  have  seen 
a  man  in  love  grow  pale  and  lose  his  appetite  upon  the  pluck- 
ing of  a  merry-thought.  A  screech-owl  at  midnight  has  alarmed 
a  family  more  than  a  band  of  robbers,  —  nay,  the  voice  of  a 
cricket  has  struck  more  terror  than  the  roaring  of  a  lion.  There 
is  nothing  so  inconsiderable  which  may  not  appear  dreadful  to 
the  imagination  that  is  filled  with  omens  and  prognostics.  A 
rusty  nail  or  a  crooked  pin  shoot  up  into  prodigies." 

The  following  essay  from  Addison  gives  a  humorous  de- 
scription of  Clubs,  which  in  Queen  Anne's  time  sprang  up 
in  such  numbers  and  with  such  a  variety  of  objects :  — 

ACCOUNTS    OF   VARIOUS    CLUHS. 

"  Man  is  said  to  be  a  sociable  animal ;  and  as  an  instance  of 
it,  we  may  observe  that  we  take  all  occasions  and  pretences  of 
forming  ourselves  into  those  little  nocturnal  assemblies  which 
are  commonly  known  by  the  name  of  clubs.  When  a  set  of 
men  find  themselves  to  agree  in  any  particular,  though  never 
so  trivial,  they  establish  themselves  into  a  kind  of  fraternity,  and 
meet  once  or  twice  a  week,  upon  the  account  of  such  a  fantastic 
resemblance.  I  know  a  considerable  market-town,  in  which 
there  was  a  club  of  fat  men,  that  did  not  come  together  (as  you 
may  well  suppose)  to  entertain  one  another  with  sprightliness 
and  wit,  but  to  keep  one  another  in  countenance.  The  room 
where  the  club  met  was  something  of  the  largest,  and  had  two 
entrances,  the  one  by  a  door  of  moderate  size,  and  the  other  by 
a  pair  of  folding-doors.  If  a  candidate  for  this  corpulent  club 
could  make  an  entrance  through  the  first,  he  was  looked  upon 
as  unqualified;  but  if  he  stuck  in  the  passage  and  could  not 
force  his  way  through  it,  the  folding-doors  were  immediately 
thrown  open  for  his  reception,  and  he  was  saluted  as  a  brother. 
I  have  heard  that  this  clul),  tliough  it  consisted  of  but  fifteen 
persons,  weighed  above  three  ton. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  273 

"  In  opposition  to  this  society,  there  sprang  up  another,  com- 
posed of  scarecrows  and  skeletons,  who,  being  very  meagre  and 
envious,  did  all  they  could  to  thwart  the  designs  of  their  bulky 
brethren,  whom  they  represented  as  men  of  dangerous  prin- 
ciples, till  at  length  they  worked  them  out  of  the  favor  of  the 
people,  and,  consequently,  out  of  the  magistracy.  These  fac- 
tions tore  the  corporation  in  pieces  for  several  years,  till  at 
length  they  came  to  this  accommodation :  that  the  two  bailiffs 
of  the  town  should  be  annually  chosen  out  of  the  clubs,  by 
which  means  the  principal  magistrates  are  at  this  day  coupled 
like  rabbits,  one  fat  and  one  lean.  .  .  . 

"The  Humdrum  club,  of  which  I  was  formerly  an  unworthy 
member,  was  made  up  of  very  honest  gentlemen  of  peaceable 
disposition,  that  used  to  sit  together,  smoke  their  pipes,  and  say 
nothing  till  midnight.  The  Miim  club  (as  I  am  informed)  is  an 
institution  of  the  same  nature,  and  as  great  an  enemy  to  noise. 

"  After  these  two  innocent  societies,  I  cannot  forbear  mention- 
ing a  very  mischievous  one  that  was  erected  in  the  time  of  King 
Charles  II. :  I  mean  the  club  of  duelists,  into  which  none  was  to 
be  admitted  who  had  not  fought  his  man.  The  president  of  it 
was  said  to  have  killed  half  a  dozen  in  single  combat ;  but  as  for 
the  other  members,  they  took  their  seats  according  to  the  num- 
ber of  their  slain.  There  was  likewise  a  side-table,  for  such  as 
had  only  drawn  blood,  and  shown  a  laudable  ambition  of  taking 
the  first  opportunity  to  qualify  themselves  for  the  first  table. 
This  club,  consisting  only  of  men  of  honor,  did  not  continue 
long,  most  of  the  members  of  it  being  put  to  the  sword,  or 
hanged,  a  little  after  its  institution. 

"  Our  modern  celebrated  clubs  are  founded  upon  eating  and 
drinking,  which  are  points  wherein  most  men  agree,  and  in 
which  the  learned  and  the  illiterate,  the  dull  and  the  airy,  the 
philosopher  and  the  buffoon,  can  all  of  them  bear  a  part.  .  .  . 
When  men  are  thus  knit  together  by  a  love  of  society,  not  a 
spirit  of  faction,  and  do  not  meet  to  censure  or  annoy  those  that 
are  absent,  but  to  enjoy  one  another;  when  they  are  thus  com- 
bined for  their  own  improvement,  or  for  the  good  of  others,  or 
at  least  to  relax  themselves  from  the  business  of  the  day  by  an 
innocent  and  cheerful  conversation,  —  there  may  be  something 
very  useful  in  these  little  institutions  and  establishments." 

Addison's  prose  style  has  ever  since  his  day  been  regarded 
as  a  model,  and  stands  for  that  which  is  most  stately  and 
polished  in  English  prose.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  his 
carefully  worded  sentences  sound  a  little  stiff  and  old-fash- 

i8 


2/4  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

ioned,  we  cannot  help  feeling  their  charm  as  they  flow  from 
his  pen ;  and  there  are  few  names  in  literature  that  excite 
a  warmer  personal  interest  in  those  who  are  familiar  with 
his  life  and  his  writings  than  the  name  of  Joseph  Addison. 


XL. 

On  the  Great  Dean  Svmft. 


T 


HE  last  writer  whom  we  shall  include  in  the  Augustan 
age  is  Jonathan  Swift,  who  was  a  clergyman  of  the 
English  Church  and  was  appointed  to  the  deanery 
of  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Patrick's,  in  Ireland, 
which  gave  him  the  title  of  Dean  Siuift,  by  which  he 
is  best  known.  He  began  life,  like  so  many  other  great 
men,  without  fortune,  and  as  a  young  inan  was  a  secretary 
and  a  poor  dependent  in  the  family  of  Sir  William  Temple. 
Swift  seems  to  have  felt  poverty  and  dependence  on  a  rich 
patron  very  bitterly.  It  soured  him,  and  spoiled  his 
manners  all  his  life  long,  —  at  least,  this  is  the  only  expla- 
nation, except  natural  ill-temper,  of  the  fact  that  his 
manners  were  brusque  and  disagreeable  to  the  worst  de- 
gree, although,  in  spite  of  this,  he  had  many  friends,  and  won 
the  affection  of  two  lovable  and  accomplished  women.  His 
conduct  to  these  two  women,  both  of  whom  were  devoted 
to  him,  was  heartless  ;  his  behavior  to  people  who  befriended 
him  was  often  rude  and  uncivil ;  and  if  we  may  judge  of  him 
through  his  biographies,  he  is  a  man  whom  we  should  prefer 
to  know  only  in  his  writings.  But  there  he  appears  a  great 
man.  He  was  a  versatile  writer,  and  whatever  he  wrote 
was  at  once  noted.  His  satires  in  prose  were  as  keen  as 
Pope's  rhymed  satires ;  he  was  as  shrewd  an  observer  and 
could  hit  off  the  follies  of  the  age  as  cleverly  as  Addison 
or  Steele  ;  he  almost  rivalled  De  Foe  in  his  power  of  paint- 
ing fiction  with  the  hues  of  truth ;  and  he  was  a  clever  poet 
besides.  Whatever  lie  does,  the  quality  that  impresses  one 
in  his  work  is  poicer. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TUKE.  275 

The  first  work  which  drew  notice  was  The  Battle  of  the 
Books.  The  question  had  been  raised  in  France  whether 
modern  writers  were  not  as  great  as  the  ancient  writers. 
This  dispute  spread  to  England.  Naturally,  in  the  state  of 
public  taste,  the  greater  part  of  the  reading  world  thought 
it  a  dangerous  heresy  to  assert  that  a  modern  writer  could 
equal  those  of  Greece  and  Rome,  and  the  valiant  few  who 
dared  to  stand  by  this  idea  were  hooted  at  in  disdain.  In 
The  Battle  of  the  Books,  Swift  sided  with  the  majority,  and 
assailed  with  the  arrows  of  his  satire  those  who  ventured  to 
plead  for  the  moderns. 

The  Battle  of  the  Books  was  soon  followed  by  the  Tale  of 
a  Tub,  which  made  a  sensation  in  literary  circles  that  we 
could  hardly  appreciate  in  reading  it  nowadays.  This 
was  the  story  of  three  sons  who,  on  the  death  of  their 
father,  are  each  bequeathed  a  coat  that,  with  proper  usage, 
should  last  a  lifetime.  These  three  sons  are  Peter  (the 
Papist),  Martin  (the  English  Church),  and  Jack  (the  Dis- 
senter) .  In  those  days  the  pulpits  of  Dissenting  preachers 
were  called  "  tubs,"  in  derision,  —  whence  Swift  got  the  title 
for  his  book  of  The  Tale  of  a  Tub. 

The  trouble  that  these  three  brothers  have  with  their 
coats,  and  the  shifts  they  are  put  to  to  wear  them  in  con- 
formity to  their  father's  will,  is  very  droll  to  read  about,  even 
when  we  do  not  care  to  follow  out  the  satire.  I  hardly 
need  tell  you  that  although  Martin  has  some  share  in  the 
ridicule,  yet  his  coat  is  in  very  good  condition,  and  comes 
out  bravely  beside  those  of  his  brothers,  Jack  and  Peter. 

Gulliver's  Travels  appeared  about  twenty  years  after  77^1? 
Tale  of  a  Tub.  In  the  mean  time.  Swift  had  written  many 
prose  tracts  and  several  poems.  During  this  time  he  was 
made  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's.  He  was  one  of  those  men 
who,  like  Dryden,  exercised  a  power  over  their  age.  He 
could  wield  this  power  over  men  and  affairs  even  from  his 
remote  post  in  Ireland ;  and  when  he  went  to  London  (and 
his  visits  there  were  frequent)  the  great  metropolis  felt  his 
presence.  He  was  a  guest  at  the  houses  of  the  great,  the 
Scriblerus  Club  were  honored   to  have  him  as  a  member, 


276  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

and  he  was  the  friend  of  Pope,  Gay,  Addison,  and  of  all  the 
famous  men  of  this  Augustan  age. 

Gulliver's  Travels  will  live  when  all  the  religious  and 
political  quarrels  that  it  laughs  at  are  altogether  forgotten. 
It  is  the  account  of  the  travels  of  a  respectable  English- 
man who  meets  with  most  extraordinary  adventures,  which 
are  related  in  the  same  realistic  way  in  which  De  Foe  tells 
his  stories.  Gulliver  is  first  shipwrecked  in  the  country  of 
the  Lilliputians,  or  little  people.  Finding  himself  safe  from 
the  sea,  and  once  more  on  firm  earth,  he  lies  down,  over- 
powered with  fatigue,  and  falls  into  a  deep  sleep.  When  he 
wakes  he  finds  himself  besieged  by  an  army  of  little  beings 
three  inches  in  height,  who  have  erected  scaling-ladders  to 
climb  upon  his  body,  and  are  walking  about  all  over  him. 
They  have  brought  their  ropes  and  cables  (of  the  size  of 
common  thread),  and  made  an  ingenious  array  of  bonds  to 
fasten  him  to  the  earth.  At  the  first  movement  he  makes 
on  waking,  he  breaks  a  great  part  of  the  network  of  bonds 
that  fastens  him  ;  then  the  little  army  discharge  a  flight  of 
arrows,  which  prick  him  like  needles.  Finding,  however, 
that  he  is  not  disposed  to  harm  them,  they  at  last  lead  the 
"man-mountain,"  as  they  call  him,  to  the  presence  of  their 
emperor,  and  he  is  entertained  with  princely  hospitality  in 
the  kingdom  of  Lilliput,  He  thus  gives  an  account  of  his 
manner  of  living  :  — 

"  And  here  it  may  perhaps  divert  the  curious  reader  to  give 
some  account  of  my  domestics  and  my  manner  of  living  in  this 
country  during  a  residence  of  nine  months  and  thirteen  days. 
Having  a  head  mechanically  turned,  and  being  likewise  forced 
by  necessity,  I  had  made  for  myself  a  table  and  chair,  conve- 
nient enough,  out  of  the  largest  trees  in  the  royal  park.  Two 
hundred  seamstresses  were  employed  to  make  me  shirts  and 
linen  for  my  bed  and  table,  all  of  the  strongest  and  coarsest  kind 
they  could  get ;  which,  however,  they  were  forced  to  quilt  to- 
gether in  several  folds,  for  the  thickest  was  some  degrees  finer 
than  lawn.  Their  linen  is  usually  three  inches  wide,  and  three 
feet  make  a  piece.  The  seamstresses  took  my  measure  as  I  lay 
on  the  ground,  one  standing  at  my  neck  and  another  at  my 
mid-leg  with  a  strong  cord  extended  that  each  held  by  the  end, 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


277 


while  a  third  measured  the  length  of  the  cord  with  a  rule  of  an 
inch  long.  Then  they  measured  my  right  thumb,  and  desired 
no  more,  for,  by  mathematical  computation,  that  twice  round 
the  thumb  is  once  round  the  wrist,  and  so  on  to  the  neck  and 
waist ;  and  by  the  help  of  my  old  shirt,  which  I  displayed  before 
them  on  the  ground  for  a  pattern,  they  fitted  me  exactly. 
Three  hundred  tailors  were  employed  in  the  same  manner  to 
make  me  clothes ;  but  they  had  another  contrivance  for  takino- 
my  measure.  I  kneeled  down,  and  they  raised  a  ladder  from 
the  ground  to  my  neck ;  upon  this  ladder  one  of  them  mounted, 
and  let  fall  a  plumb-line  from  my  collar  to  the  floor,  which  just 
answered  the  length  of  my  coat ;  but  my  waist  and  arms  I 
measured  myself.  When  my  clothes  were  finished  (which  was 
done  in  my  house,  for  the  largest  of  theirs  would  not  have  been 
able  to  hold  them)  they  looked  like  the  patchwork  made  by  the 
ladies  in  England,  only  that  mine  were  all  of  a  color. 

"  I  had  three  hundred  cooks  to  dress  my  victuals  in  little 
convenient  huts  built  about  my  house,  where  they  and  their 
families  lived  and  prepared  me  two  dishes  apiece ;  I  took  up 
twenty  waiters  in  my  hand,  and  placed  them  on  the  table ;  a 
hundred  more  attended  below  on  the  ground,  some  with  dishes 
of  meat,  and  some  with  barrels  of  wine  and  other  liquors  slung 
on  their  shoulders,  all  which  the  waiters  above  drew  up,  as 
I  wanted,  in  a  very  ingenious  manner,  by  certain  cords,  as  we 
draw  the  bucket  up  a  well  in  Europe.  A  dish  of  their  meat 
was  a  good  mouthful,  and  a  barrel  of  their  liquor  a  reasonable 
draught.  Their  mutton  yields  to  ours,  but  their  beef  is  excel- 
lent. I  have  had  a  sirloin  so  large  that  I  have  been  forced  to 
make  three  bites  of  it ;  but  this  is  rare.  My  servants  were 
astonished  to  see  me  eat  it,  bones  and  all,  as  in  this  country  we 
do  the  leg  of  a  lark.  Their  geese  and  turkeys  I  usually  eat  at 
a  mouthful,  and  I  confess  they  far  excel  ours.  Of  their  smaller 
fowls  I  could  take  up  twenty  or  thirty  at  the  end  of  my  knife. 

"  One  day  his  imperial  majesty  [the  Emperor  of  Lilliput],  be- 
ing informed  of  my  way  of  living,  desired  'that  himself  and  his 
royal  consort,  with  the  young  princes  of  the  blood  of  both  sexes, 
might  have  the  happiness,'  as  he  pleased  to  call  it,  'of  dining 
with  me.'  They  came  accordingly,  and  I  placed  \\\q.\\\  in  chairs 
of  state  upon  my  table,  just  over  against  me,  with  their  guards 
about  them.  Flimnap,  the  lord  high  treasurer,  attended  them 
likewise  with  his  white  staff;  and  I  observed  he  often  looked  on 
me  with  a  sour  countenance,  which  I  would  not  seem  to  regard, 
but  eat  more  than  usual,  in  honor  of  my  dear  country,  as  well 
as   to   fill   the   court  with    admiration.     I   have  some  private 


2/8  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

reasons  to  believe  tliat  this  visit  from  his  Majesty  gave  Flimnap 
an  opportunity  of  doing  me  ill  offices  to  his  master.  The 
minister  had  always  been  my  secret  enemy,  though  he  out- 
wardly caressed  me  more  than  was  usual  to  the  moroseness  of 
his  nature.  He  represented  to  the  emperor  the  condition  of 
his  treasury  :  that  he  was  forced  to  take  up  money  at  a  great 
discount;  that  exchequer  bills  would  not  circulate  under  nine 
per  cent  below  par;  that  I  had  cost  his  Majesty  above  a  million 
and  a  half  of  sprugs  (their  greatest  gold  coin,  about  the  bigness 
of  a  spangle);  and  upon  the  whole,  that  it  would  be  advisable  in 
the  emperor  to  take  the  first  fair  occasion  of  dismissing  me." 

On  his  next  voyage  after  his  return  from  Lilliput,  Gulli- 
ver encounters  a  shipwreck  which  throws  him  on  the  coast 
of  Brobdingnag,  or  the  giants'  country.  In  saving  himself 
from  the  wreck,  he  has  seen  a  huge  monster  wading  in  the 
surf,  but  escapes  from  him  and  makes  his  way  to  a  field  of 
gigantic  grain,  whose  stalks  are  forty  feet  high.  As  he  is 
floundering  about  in  this  field  of  grain  like  a  man  in  a 
pathless  forest,  there  come  into  it  a  party  of  reapers,  each  as 
high  as  an  ordinary  church  steeple,  who  stride  ten  yards  at 
each  step.  Gulliver  at  once  reflects  that  he  would  be  as 
much  of  a  pygmy  to  these  people  as  the  Lilliputians  had 
been  pygmies  to  him ;  and  hiding  in  the  grain,  he  begins  to 
philosophize  that  nothing  is  either  great  or  little  except  by 
comparison.     He  goes  on  thus  :  — 

"  Scared  and  confounded  as  I  was,  I  could  not  forbear  going 
on  with  these  reflections,  when  one  of  the  reapers  approaching 
within  ten  yards  of  the  ridge  where  I  lay,  made  me  apprehend 
that  with  the  next  step  I  should  be  squashed  to  death  under  his 
foot,  or  cut  in  two  with  liis  reaping-hook  ;  and,  therefore,  when 
he  was  again  about  to  move,  I  screamed  as  loud  as  fear  could 
make  me ;  whereupon  the  huge  creature  stopped  short,  and 
looking  round  about  under  him  for  some  time,  at  last  espied  me 
as  I  lay  on  the  ground.  He  considered  awhile,  with  the  caution 
of  one  who  endeavors  to  lay  hold  on  a  small,  dangerous  animal 
in  such  a  manner  that  it  shall  not  be  able  either  to  scratch  or 
bite  him,  as  I  myself  have  sometimes  done  with  a  weasel  in 
England.  At  length  he  ventured  to  take  me  behind,  by  the 
middle,  between  his  finger  and  thumb,  and  brought  me  within 
three   yards  of  his  eyes,  that  he  might  behold  my  shape  more 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERA  TURE  2/9 

nerfectlv      I  guessed  his  meaning,  and  my  good  fortune  gave 
me  so  much  presence  of  mind  that  I  resolved  not  to  struggle 
in  the  least,  as  he  held  me  in  the  air  above  sixty  feet  from  the 
eround,  though    he   grievously  pinched  my  sides,   for   fear    1 
should  slip  through  his  fingers.     All  I  ventured  was  to  raise 
mine  eyes  towards  the  sun,  and  place  my  hands  together  in  a 
supplicating  posture,  and  to  speak  some  words  m  a_  humble 
melancholy  tone,  suitable  to  the  condition  I  was  now  m ;  for  I 
apprehended  every  moment  that  he  would  dash  "lejigainst  the 
ground,  as  we  do  some  hateful  little  animal  which  we  have  a 
mind  to  destroy.     But  my  good   star  would  have  it  that  he 
appeared  pleased  with  my  voice  and  gestures,  and  begun  to 
look  on  me  as  a  curiosity,  much  wondering  to  hear  me  pro- 
nounce  articulate   words,   although   he   could   not   understand 
them      In  the  mean  time  I   was  not  able  to  forbear  groaning 
and  shedding  tears,  and  turning  my  head  towards  my  sides, 
letting  him  know,  as  well  as  I  could,  how  cruelly  I  was  hurt  by 
the  pressure  of  his  thumb  and  finger.     He  seemed  to  apprehend 
my  meaning,  for,  lifting  up  the  lappet  of  his  coat,  he  put  me 
gently  into  it,  and  immediately  ran  along  with  me  to  l"s  nmster 
who  was  a  substantial  farmer,  and  the  same  person  I  had  first 

'''^The^^farm'er,"  having  (as  I   suppose  by  their  talk)  received 
such  an  account  of  me  as  his  servant  could  give  him,  took  a 
piece  of  small  straw  about  the  size  of  a  walking-staff,  and  there- 
with lifted  up  the  lappets  of  my  coat,  which  it  seems  he  thought 
to  be  some  kind  of  covering  that  nature  had  given  me.     He 
blew  my  hair  aside  to  get  a  better  view  of  my  face;  he  called 
his  hinds  about  him  and  asked  them,  as  I  afterwards  learned 
'  whether  they  had  ever  seen  in  the  fields  any  little  creature  tha 
resembled  me;'  he  then  placed  me  softly  on  the  ground  on  all 
fours;  but  I  immediately  got  up  and  walked  slowly  backward 
and  forward  to  let  him  see  I  had  no  intent  to  run  away.     They 
all  sat  down  in  a  circle  about  me,  the  better  to  observe  rny 
motions.     I    pulled   off  my  hat  and  made  a  low  bow  to  the 
farmer;  I  fell  on  mv  knees,  lifted  up  my  hands  and  eyes,  and 
spoke  several  words  as  loud  as  I  could ;  I  took  a  purse  of  gold 
out  of  my  pocket  and  humbly  presented  it  to  him.     He  received 
it  on  the  palm  of  his  hand,  then  applied  it  close  to  his  eye  to 
see  what  it  was,  and  afterwards  turned  it  several  times  with  the 
point  of  a  pin,  but  could  make  nothing  of  it ;  whereupon  I  made 
a  sign  that  he  should  put  his  hand  upon  the  ground ;  I  then 
took  the   purse,   and  opening  it,  poured  all  the  gold  into  his 
palm.     I  saw  him  wet  the  tip  of  his  finger  upon  his  tongue  and 


2  So  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

take  up  one  of  my  largest  pieces,  and  then  another;  but  he 
seemed  to  be  wholly  ignorant  what  they  were.  He  made  me  a 
sign  to  put  them  again  into  my  purse,  and  the  purse  again  into 
my  pocket,  which,  after  offering  it  to  him  several  times,  I 
thought  it  best  to  do. 

"  The  farmer  by  this  time  was  convinced  I  must  be  a  rational 
creature.  He  spoke  often  to  me,  but  the  sound  of  his  voice 
pierced  my  ears  like  that  of  a  water-mill ;  yet  his  words  were 
articulate  enough.  I  answered  as  loud  as  I  could  in  several 
languages,  and  he  often  laid  his  ear  within  two  feet  of  me  ;  but 
all  in  vain,  for  we  were  wholly  unintelligible  to  each  other.  He 
then  sent  his  servants  to  their  work,  and  taking  his  handkerchief 
out  of  his  pocket,  he  doubled  it  and  spread  it  on  his  left  hand, 
which  he  placed  flat  on  the  ground,  with  palm  upwards,  making 
me  a  sign  to  step  into  it,  as  I  could  easily  do,  for  it  was  not 
above  a  foot  in  thickness.  I  thought  it  my  part  to  obey ;  and 
for  fear  of  falling,  laid  myself  at  full  length  upon  the  handker- 
chief, with  the  remainder  of  which  he  lapped  me  up  to  the  head 
for  further  security,  and  in  this  manner  he  carried  me  home  to 
his  house.  There  he  called  his  wife  and  showed  me  to  her  ; 
but  she  screamed  and  ran  back,  as  women  in  England  do  at 
the  sight  of  a  toad  or  spider.  However,  when  she  had  awhile 
seen  my  behavior  and  how  well  I  observed  the  signs  her  hus- 
band made,  she  was  soon  reconciled,  and  by  degrees  became 
extremely  tender  to  me. 

"  It  was  about  twelve  at  noon,  and  a  servant  brought  in  din- 
ner. It  was  only  one  substantial  dish  of  meat  (fit  for  the  plain 
condition  of  a  husbandman),  in  a  dish  of  about  four  and  twenty 
feet  diameter.  The  company  were  the  farmer  and  his  wife, 
three  children,  and  an  old  grandmother.  When  they  sat  down, 
the  farmer  placed  me  at  some  distance  from  him  on  the  table, 
which  was  thirty  feet  high  from  the  lloor.  I  was  in  a  terrible 
fright,  and  kept  as  far  as  I  could  from  the  edge,  for  fear  of 
falling.  The  wife  minced  a  bit  of  meat,  then  crumbled  some 
bread  on  a  trencher,  and  placed  it  before  me.  I  made  her  a  low 
bow,  took  out  my  knife  and  fork,  and  fell  to  eat,  which  gave 
them  exceeding  delight.  The  mistress  sent  her  maid  for  a 
small  dram-cup  which  held  about  two  gallons,  and  filled  it  with 
drink:  I  took  up  the  vessel  with  much  difficulty  in  both  hands, 
and  in  a  most  respectful  manner  drank  to  her  ladyship's 
health,  expressing  the  words  as  loud  as  I  could  in  English, 
which  made  the  comjiany  laugh  so  heartily  that  I  was  almost 
deafened  with  the  noise.  This  liquor  tasted  like  a  small  cider, 
and  was  not  unplea.sant.     Then  the  master  made  me  a  sign  to 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  28 1 

come  to  his  trencher  side ;  but  as  I  walked  on  the  table,  being 
in  great  surprise  all  the  time,  as  the  indulgent  reader  will  easily 
conceive  and  excuse,  I  happened  to  stumble  against  a  crust  and 
fell  flat  on  my  face,  but  received  no  hurt.  I  got  up  immedi- 
ately, and  observing  the  good  people  to  be  in  much  concern,  I 
took  my  hat  (which  I  held  under  my  arm  out  of  good  manners), 
and  waving  it  over  my  head,  made  three  huzzas  to  show  that 
I  had  got  no  mischief  by  my  fall. 

"  But  advancing  forward  towards  my  master  (as  I  shall 
henceforth  call  him),  his  youngest  son,  who  sat  next  to  him,  an 
arch  boy  of  about  ten  years  old,  took  me  up  by  the  legs  and 
held  me  so  high  in  the  air  that  I  trembled  in  every  limb ;  but  his 
father  snatched  me  from  him,  and  at  the  same  time  gave  him 
such  a  box  on  the  left  ear  as  would  have  felled  a  European 
troop  of  horse  to  the  earth,  ordering  him  to  be  taken  from  the 
table.  But  being  afraid  the  boy  might  owe  me  a  spite,  and 
well  remembering  how  mischievous  all  children  among  us  are 
to  sparrows,  rabbits,  young  kittens,  and  puppy  dogs,  I  fell  on 
my  knees,  and  pointing  to  the  boy,  made  my  master  to  under- 
stand as  well  as  I  could  that  I  desired  his  son  should  be  par- 
doned. The  father  complied,  and  the  lad  took  his  seat  again; 
whereupon  I  went  to  him  and  kissed  his  hand,  which  my  master 
took,  and  made  him  stroke  me  gently  with  it. 

"In  the  midst  of  dinner  my  mistress'  favorite  cat  leaped  into 
her  lap.  I  heard  a  noise  behind  me  like  that  of  a  dozen  stock- 
ing-weavers at  work,  and  turning  my  head,  I  found  it  proceeded 
from  the  purring  of  that  animal,  who  seemed  to  be  three  times 
larger  than  an  ox,  as  I  computed  by  the  view  of  her  head  and 
one  of  her  paws,  while  her  mistress  was  feeding  and  stroking 
her.  The  fierceness  of  this  creature's  countenance  altogether 
discomposed  me,  though  I  stood  at  the  further  end  of  the 
table,  above  fifty  feet  off,  and  although  my  mistress  held  her 
fast,  for  fear  she  would  spring  and  seize  me  in  her  talons.  But 
it  happened  there  was  no  danger,  for  the  cat  took  not  the  least 
notice  of  me  when  my  master  placed  me  within  three  yards  of 
her.  And,  as  I  have  been  always  told,  and  found  true  by  ex- 
.perience  in  my  travels,  that  flying  or  discovering  fear  before  a 
strange  animal  is  a  certain  way  to  make  it  pursue  or  attack 
you,  so  I  resolved  in  this  dangerous  juncture  to  show  no 
manner  of  concern.  I  walked  with  intrepidity  five  or  six  times 
before  the  very  head  of  the  cat,  and  came  within  half  a  yard  of 
her,  whereupon  slie  drew  herself  back  as  if  afraid  of  me.  I  had 
less  apprehension  concerning  the  dogs,  whereof  three  or  four 
came   into  the  room,  as  is  usual  in  farmers'  houses,  one  of 


282  FAMILIAR   TALKS 

which  was  a  mastiff,  equal  in  bulk  to  four  elephants,  and  a 
greyhound,  somewhat  taller  than  the  mastiff,  but  not  so 
large." 

It  must  be  kept  in  mind  while  reading  the  account  of 
Gulliver's  life  in  Brobdingnag  that  he  was  a  man  six  feet 
in  height,  and  proportionately  large,  otherwise  he  will 
assume  to  us  only  Lill!i)utian  size.  The  whole  account  of 
his  life  there  is  very  amusing,  —  how  he  was  made  a  pet  of 
by  his  master's  little  daughter  Glumdalclitch,  who  fitted  up 
her  doll's  cradle  for  him  ;  how  he  had  a  padded  box  to 
travel  in,  which  was  carried  about  by  Glumdalclitch  ;  how 
his  master  made  a  show  of  him  through  the  kingdom  of  the 
Brobdingnagians ;  together  with  many  other  interesting  ad- 
ventures, till  he  finally  escapes  and  gets  home  again. 

Gulliver  makes  several  other  voyages  besides  these  which 
we  have  read  of,  —  one  to  a  flying  island  called  Laputa ; 
another  to  the  land  of  the  Houyhnhnms  and  the  Yahoos,  in 
which  horses  are  the  superior  race  of  animals,  and  man  the 
inferior.  But  none  are  so  interesting  as  those  to  Lilliput  and 
Brobdingnag,  and  the  story  of  Gulliver  will  always  be  that 
by  which  the  great  Dean  Swift  will  be  longest  remembered. 


XLI. 

English  Comedy  Writers,  —  Congreve,  Vanbrugh,   and 
Farquhar. 

THREE  of  the  most  brilliant  comedy  writers  in  English 
were  contemporaries  of  Pope,  Swift,  and  Addison ; 
these  were  Congreve,  Vanbrugh,  and  Farquhar,  whose 
lively,  brilliant,  pointed  style  in  their  dialogue  comes 
nearest  to  the  brightness  of  French  comedy,  of  anything  we 
have  ever  had  in  our  literature.  Almost  every  sentence 
spoken  by  their  characters  is  so  sharp  with  wit  that  the 
dialogue  reads  like  a  string  of  epigrams.  It  is  a  pity  that 
so  much  genius  was  lavished  on  works  of  which  the  motive 
is  coarse  and  repulsive.     Not  one  of  the  comedies  of  this 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  283 

age  is  now  acted,  and  few  can  be  read  with  eitlier  profit  or 
pleasure. 

William  Congreve,  the  earliest  of  this  trio,  was  also  the 
most  distinguished.  He  was  a  man  of  the  world,  .g-Qj-oa 
and  thus  the  better  fitted  to  write  comedies  which 
were  pictures  of  the  world  in  which  he  lived.  Nearly  all 
his  works  were  comedies,  although  his  one  tragedy,  the 
Mourning  Bride,  was  that  of  which  Dr.  Johnson  said  :  "  If 
I  were  requested  to  select  from  the  whole  mass  of  English 
poetry  the  most  poetical  paragraph,  I  know  not  what  I 
should  prefer  to  an  exclamation  in  the  Mourni?ig  Bride." 
Here  is  the  "  paragraph  "  to  which  Johnson  refers,  —  the 
description  of  the  cathedral  at  night : — 

\Almeria  and  Leonora  in  the  cathedral?^ 

Aim.     It  was  a  fancied  noise,  for  all  is  hushed. 

Leon.     It  bore  the  accent  of  a  human  voice. 

Aim.     It  was  thy  fear,  or  else  some  transient  wind 

Whistling  through  hollows  of  this  vaulted  aisle. 
We  '11  listen. 

Leon.     Hark ! 

Aim.     No,  all  is  hushed  and  still  as  death.     'T  is  dreadful ! 
How  reverend  is  the  face  of  this  tall  pile. 
Whose  ancient  pillars  rear  their  marble  heads 
To  bear  aloft  its  arched  and  ponderous  roof. 
By  its  own  weight  made  steadfast  and  immovable, 
Looking  tranquillity.     It  strikes  an  awe 
And  terror  on  my  aching  sight.     The  tombs 
And  monumental  caves  of  death  look  cold, 
And  shoot  a  chillness  to  my  trembling  heart. 
Give  me  thy  hand,  and  let  me  hear  thy  voice ; 
Nay,  quickly  speak  to  me,  and  let  me  hear 
Thy  voice  ;  my  own  affrights  me  with  its  echo. 

Let  me  say,  after  reading  this,  that  I  know  of  no  subject 
on  which  I  would  not  rather  take  Dr.  Johnson's  opinion 
than  upon  that  of  poetry. 

But  Johnson's  verdict  was  that  of  Congreve's  own  time. 
Congreve  had  places  of  profit  and  honor  in  abundance  ;  great 
men  were  proud  to  call  on  him  ;  Pope  dedicated  to  him  his 
translation  of  the  Iliad ;  and  after  his  death,  a  great  lady 
had  a  wax  figure  made  to  resemble  him,  laid  out  in  state  in 


284  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

her  drawing-room,  that  she  might  lavish  on  it  the  affection 
she  had  felt  for  Congreve  himself. 

His  comedies  arc  all  that  can  be  desired  in  sparkle  and 
brilliancy  of  style.  Hazlitt,  a  very  good  critic,  who  wrote 
in  the  early  part  of  this  century,  says  that  "  They  are  full  of 
the  niceties  of  English  style,  and  there  is  even  a  peculiar 
flavor  in  the  words  not  to  be  found  in  another  writer."  It 
is  their  grossness  which  makes  them  now  so  fortunately 
unknown.  Here  is  a  scene  from  the  opening  of  Love  for 
Love,  one  of  the   most  famous  of  the  comedies :  — 

(  Valentine,  who  has  fallen  under  his  father's  displeasure  by  his  ex- 
travagant way  of  living,  and  is  in  love  with  Angelica,  who  is  also  dis- 
pleased with  him,  has  shut  himself  up  in  his  lodgings  and  taken  to 
study.  He  is  at  his  table  reading,  and  feremy,  his  valet,  is  standing 
near  him.) 

Val.     Jeremy  — . 

Jer.     Sir  ? 

Val.  [  Throwing  the  book  at  him].  Here,  take  away.  I  '11  walk  a 
turn,  and  digest  what  I  've  read. 

yer.  [Taking  the  booh,  mutters'].  You'll  grow  devilish  fat  upon  this 
paper  diet. 

I'al.  And  d'ye  hear,  go  you  to  breakfast.  There  's  a  page  doubled 
down  in  Epictetus  that  is  a  feast  for  an  emperor. 

Jer.     Was  Epictetus  a  real  cook,  or  did  he  only  write  receipts? 

Val.  Read,  read,  sirrah!  and  refine  your  appetite;  learn  to  live 
upon  instruction  ;  feast  your  mind  and  mortify  your  flesh ;  read,  and 
take  your  nourishment  in  at  your  eyes  ;  shut  up  your  mouth  and 
chew  the  cud  of  understanding;  so  Epictetus  advises 

Jer.  Oh,  Lord,  I  have  heard  much  of  him  when  I  waited  on  a 
gentleman  at  Cambridge.     Pray,  what  was  that  Epictetus  .' 

Val.     A  very  rich  man,  not  worth  a  groat. 

Jer.  Humph  !  and  so  he  has  made  a  very  fine  fe.ist  where  there  is 
nothing  to  be  eaten  .'' 

Val.     Yes. 

Jer.  Sir,  you  are  a  gentleman,  and  probably  understand  is  fine 
feeding ;  but,  if  you  please,  I  'd  rather  live  on  board  wages.  Docs 
your  Epictetus,  or  your  Seneca  here,  or  any  of  these  poor  rich 
rogues  teach  you  how  to  pay  your  debts  without  money  .••  Will  they 
shut  up  the  mouths  of  your  creditors  ?  Will  Plato  be  bail  for  you  ; 
or  Diogenes,  because  he  understands  confinement  and  lived  in  a  tub, 
go  to  prison  for  you?  S'life,  sir,  what  do  you  mean  ?  to  mew  your- 
self up  here  with  three  or  four  musty  books,  in  commendation  of 
starving  and  poverty  ? 

Val.  Why,  sirrah,  I  have  no  money,  you  know  it,  and  therefore 
resolve  to  rail  at  all  who  have ;  and  in  that  I  but  follow  the  example 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  285 

of  the  wisest  and  wittiest  men  in  all  ages,  those  poets  and  philoso- 
phers whom  you  naturally  hate  for  just  such  another  reason,  because 
they  abound  in  sense,  and  you  are  a  fool. 

Jer.  Ay,  sir,  I  am  a  fool,  and  I  know  it ;  and  yet,  Heaven  help  me, 
I'm  poor  enough  to  be  a  wit.  But  I  was  always  a  fool  when  I  told 
what  your  expenses  would  bring  you  to,  —  your  coaches  and  your 
liveries,  your  treats  and  your  balls,  your  being  in  love  with  a  lady  that 
did  not  care  a  farthing  for  you  in  your  prosperity ;  and  keeping  com- 
pany with  wits  that  cared  for  nothing  but  your  prosperity  ;  and  now, 
when  you  are  poor,  hate  you  as  much  as  they  do  one  another. 

Val.  .  .  .  For  the  wits,  I  am  in  a  condition  to  be  even  with  them. 
.  .  .  I  '11  take  some  of  their  trade  out  of  their  hands. 

yer.  Now,  Heaven  of  mercy,  continue  the  tax  on  paper.  You 
don't  mean  to  write .'' 

Val.     Yes,  I  do ;  I  '11  write  a  play. 

Jer.  Hem!  Sir,  if  you  please  to  give  me  a  small  certificate,  of 
three  lines  only,  to  certify  those  whom  it  may  concern  that  the  bearer 
hereof,  Jeremy  Fetch  by  name,  has  for  the  space  of  seven  years  truly 
and  faithfully  served  Valentine  Legend,  Esq.,  and  that  he  is  not  now 
turned  away  for  any  misdemeanor,  but  does  voluntarily  dismiss  his 
master  from  any  further  authority  over  him. 
Val.     No,  sirrah,  you  shall  live  with  me  still. 

Jer.  Sir,  it's  impossible.  I  may  die  with  you,  starve  with  you,  or 
be  damned  with  your  works ;  but  to  live  even  three  days  the  fife  of  a 
play,  I  no  more  e.vpect  it  than  to  be  canonized  for  a  muse  after  my 
death. 

Val.  You  are  witty,  you  rogue!  I  shall  want  your  help.  I'll 
have  you  learn  to  make  couplets  to  tag  the  ends  of  acts.  .   .  . 

yer.  You  're  undone,  sir,  you  're  ruined  ;  you  won't  have  a  friend 
in  the  world  if  you  turn  poet.  Confound  that  Will's  Coffee-house; 
it  has  ruined  more  young  men  than  the  Royal  Oak  Lottery,  —  nothing 
thrives  that  belongs  to  it.   .  .  . 

{Enter  Mr.  Scandal  ] 
Scan.     What,  Jeremy  holding  forth? 

Val.  The  rogue  has,  with  all  the  wit  he  could  muster  up,  been 
declaiming  against  wit. 

Scan.  Ay  ?  Why,  then,  I  'm  afraid  Jeremy  has  wit,  for  wherever 
it  is,  it 's  always  contriving  its  own  ruin. 

yer.  Why,  so  I  've  been  telling  my  master,  sir.  Mr.  Scandal,  for 
Heaven's  sakes,  try,  if  you  can,  to  dissuade  him  from  turning  poet. 

Scan.  Poet!  He  shall  turn  soldier  first,  and  rather  depend  ujion 
the  outside  of  his  head  than  the  lining.  What !  has  not  your  poverty 
made  you  enemies  enough,  but  you  must  needs  show  your  wit  to  get 
more  .••... 

Val.     Therefore  I  would  rail  in  my  writings  and  be  revenged. 
Scan.     Rail  —  at  whom  ?  —  the  whole  world  ?     Impotent  and  vain  ! 
Who  would  die  a  martyr  to  sense,  in  a  country  where  the  religion  is 
folly  ?    You  may  stand  at  bay  for  a  time,  but  when  the  full  cry  is 


286  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

against  you,  you  sha'n't  have  fair  play  for  your  life.     No,  turn  flat- 
terer, quack,  lawyer,  parson,  —  anything  but  poet. 

Sir  John  Vanbrugh  was  an  architect  as  well  as  a  play- 
writer,  and  so   his  reputation  was  built  on  two 

Ifififi— 1726 

foundations,  for  some  of  his  buildings  are  almost 
as  famous  as  his  plays.  His  comedies  have  many  of  the 
merits  of  Congreve's ;  the  situations  in  the  dramas  are 
even  more  full  of  fun,  although  his  style  is  less  refined.  In 
this  he  more  resembles  Farquhar,  who  came  a  little  later 
than  either. 

George  Farquhar  was  an  actor,  who,  like  the  Elizabethan 
dramatists,  united  play-writing  to  play-acting. 
Hazlitt  says  of  this  trio :  "  We  should  have 
courted  Congreve's  acquaintance  most  for  his  wit  and  the 
elegance  of  his  manners ;  Vanbrugh's  for  his  power  of  far- 
cical description,  and  telling  a  story ;  Farquhar's,  for  the 
pleasure  of  his  society  and  the  love  of  good  fellowship." 

These  old  comedies  held  up  so  clear  a  mirror  to  the 
vices  of  their  time  that  they  are  now  unfit  to  read.  Had 
the  times  been  more  decent  and  refined,  comedy  would 
have  reflected  this  refinement.  But  as  manners  unproved, 
wit  declined ;  and  we  have  not  since  had  so  witty  and  bril- 
liant comedies  in  English  literature  as  those  of  the  time  of 
these  three  writers. 


XLII. 

A  Group  of  Eighteenth  Century  Poets,  —  Young, 
Thomson,  and  Shenstone. 

I  CANNOT  promise  that  you  will  find  the  poets  who 
follow  Pope  through  the  eighteenth  century  very  in- 
teresting ;  they  continue  on  in  a  path  of  dead-level  merit, 
from  which  they  rarely  diverge  to  produce  anything  that 
deeply  touches  the  heart  or  the  imagination.  For  my  own 
part,  I  much  prefer  the   untamed  originality  of  the  earlier 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  287 

poets.  There  is  a  charm  in  their  freedom  and  naturalness 
which  is  never  faihng.  The  constant  see-saw  rhymes,  al- 
most always  in  couplets,  which  Pope  had  made  the  fashion, 
when  used  by  poets  less  gifted  than  Pope  become  so  tire- 
some that  I  think  if  I  were  obliged  to  accept  them  as 
poetry,  I  should  henceforth  read  nothing  but  prose. 

I  will  not  dwell  long,  therefore,  on  the  poetry  of  this 
period,  but  will  run  over  for  you  the  names  of  the  most 
noted  poets  and  their  greatest  works,  from  the  time  of 
Pope  to  the  last  quarter  of  the  century. 

Edward  Young  is  best  known  as  the  author  of  Night 
Thoughts,  a  serious  and  sombre  poem  which  was 
much  read  by  our  grandfathers  and  grand- 
mothers, and  is  likely  to  be  read  very  little  hereafter. 
Young  seems  to  have  been  a  worldly  man  who  wrote  very 
unworldly  poetry.  He  was  gay  and  rather  dissipated  in 
youth,  entered  the  Church  at  fifty,  was  disappointed  that 
he  did  not  attain  to  a  bishopric,  and  at  sixty  wrote  his 
Night  Thoughts  to  express  his  dissatisfaction  with  life  and 
the  way  it  had  used  him.  His  verse  sounds  more  like 
complaining  over  disappointments  than  the  lofty  musings 
of  a  mind  enriched  by  long  experience. 

Young  wrote  other  poems  than  this,  but  they  are  so  far 
forgotten  that  he  is  known  only  as  the  author  of  The  Night 
Thoughts;  and  although  this  poem  will  never  again  be 
valued  as  highly  as  it  once  was,  there  are  in  it  many  lines 
which  have  been  so  frequently  quoted  that  they  have  be- 
come a  part  of  the  language  ;  and  there  are  also  occasional 
passages  good  enough  to  be  remembered  as  long  as  liter- 
ature exists,  —  I  mean  such  lines  as  these  :  — 

"  Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  Time." 

"  Tired  Nature  's  sweet  restorer,  —  balmy  sleep." 

"  Death  loves  a  shining  mark." 

"  How  blessings  brighten  as  they  take  their  flight !  " 

These  lines  I  have  quoted  are  like  proverbs,  and  have 
become  crystallized  in  our  daily  speech. 

Let  me  gi\-e  one  short  passage,  to  show  the  style  of  The 
Night  Tlwughts :  — 


288  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

"  Self-flattered,  unexperienced,  high  in  hope, 
When  young,  with  sanguine  cheer  and  streamers  gay, 
We  cut  our  cable,  launch  into  the  world, 
And  fondly  dicani  each  wind  and  star  our  friend, 
All  in  some  darling  enterprise  embarked. 
But  where  is  he  can  fathom  its  event  ? 
Amid  a  multitude  of  artless  hands, 
Ruin's  sure  perquisite,  her  lawful  prize  I 
Some  steer  aright;  but  the  black  blast  blows  hard, 
And  puff's  them  wide  of  hope;  with  hearts  of  proof 
Full  against  wind  and  tide,  some  win  their  way ; 
And  when  strong  effort  has  deserved  the  port, 
And  tugged  it  into  view,  't  is  won  ;  't  is  lost ! 
Though  strong  their  oar,  still  stronger  is  their  fate  ; 
They  strike,  and  while  they  triumph,  they  expire, 
In  stress  of  weather,  most :  some  sink  outright; 
O'er  them,  and  o'er  their  names,  the  billows  close 
To-morrow  knows  not  they  were  ever  born. 
Others  a  short  memorial  leave  behind, 
Like  a  f^ag  floating  when  the  bark's  engulfed. 
It  floats  a  moment  and  is  seen  no  more. 
One  Caesar  lives ;  a  thousand  are  forgot. 
How  few,  beneath  auspicious  planets  born, 
Darlings  of  Providence,  fond  Fate's  elect. 
With  swelling  sails,  make  good  the  promised  port, 
With  all  their  wishes  freighted  ;  yet  even  these. 
Freighted  with  all  their  wishes,  soon  complain ; 
Free  from  misfortune,  not  from  nature  free. 
They  still  are  men,  and  when  is  man  secure  ? 
As  fatal  time,  as  storm,  the  rush  of  years 
Beats  down  their  strength  ;  their  numberless  escapes 
In  ruin  end  ;  and,  now,  their  proud  success 
But  plants  new  terrors  on  the  victor's  brow; 
What  pain  to  quit  the  world  just  made  their  own! 
Their  nest  so  deeply  drowned,  and  built  so  high ! 
Too  low  they  build  who  build  beneath  the  stars." 

This  is  a  fair  specimen  of  Young's  manner  and  his  phi- 
losophy. I  think  we  should  not  greet  it  as  great  poetry 
if  it  were  published  for  the  first  time  to-day. 

In   strong  contrast    to  Young    is  James  Thom.son.      To 
read  his  poetry  after  the  A'/g/U  T/ioug/ifs  is  like 
coming  from  thickest  gloom  to  genial  sunshine. 
Thomson's  Si-asons,  in  four  parts,  treats  of  the  Spring,  Sum- 
mer, Autumn,  and  Winter.    They  arc  like  a  scries  of  pictures 
of  the  year,  each  with  the  color  and  atmosphere  of  the  sea- 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  289 

son  they  describe.  In  Spring  we  see  the  tender  green  of 
budding  plants  and  trees ;  in  Summer,  the  brightness  of 
blossoms ;  the  Autumn  is  russet  and  purple,  with  ripened 
grain  and  fruits ;  and  the  Winter  is  gray,  cold,  and  comfort- 
less, with  mud,  sleet,  and  bare  boughs.  No  man  could  have 
written  thus  if  he  had  not  been  an  acute  observer  of  Nature 
and  in  close  sympathy  with  her. 

He  wrote  his  Whiter  when  in  college,  and  it  aided  him  to 
gain  the  notice  of  a  rich  patron.  In  those  days  the  patron- 
age of  a  great  man  was  as  necessary  to  a  poet  as  a  good 
publisher  is  in  these  days.  Thomson  had  the  usual  ups 
and  downs  of  a  man  of  talent  who  is  poor  :  he  went  abroad 
as  tutor  to  a  rich  man's  sons;  he  acted  as  secretary  to  a 
lord ;  he  wrote  for  the  stage  ;  and  at  length  got  a  pension 
from  Frederic,  Prince  of  Wales  (the  son  of  George  II.), 
after  which  he  lived  in  comparative  ease. 

He  spent  the  last  of  his  life  in  a  pleasant  home  on  the 
Thames,  and  died,  when  forty-eight,  of  a  cold  and  fever 
brought  on  by  a  row  on  the  river,  taken  when  he  was  over- 
heated. He  was  a  popular  man,  beloved  by  his  friends, 
among  whom  was  Pope,  who  had  given  the  Seasons  encour- 
aging praise,  and  had  added  to  it  a  few  lines  when  Thomson 
sent  it  to  him  for  friendly  criticism.  In  his  retirement  Thom- 
son wrote  The  Castle  of  Indolence,  a  poem  in  Spenser's 
measure,  which  has  some  very  fine  bits  of  description,  but 
is  rather  a  close  imitation  of  the  older  poet.  His  plays 
had  some  success,  but  have  not  added  much  of  value  to  lit- 
erature. Sophonisba,  his  chief  tragedy,  is  remembered  by 
a  ridiculous  incident  on  its  first  performance.  In  one 
sentimental  line  the  hero  exclaims,  — 

"  O  Sophonisba  !  Sophonisba,  O  1 " 

As  the  actor  uttered  this  on  the  first  night,  a  mischievous 
person  in  the  gallery  groaned,  "  O  Jemmy  Thomson  !  Jem- 
my Thomson,  O  !  "  which  threw  the  audience  into  a  fit  of 
laughter,  and  spoiled  the  effect  of  the  scene. 

The  Seasons  is  a  book  which,  like  Izaak  Walton's  Angler, 
I  like  to  read  out  of  doors  under  the  trees ;  and  I  advise  you 
to  make  it  your  companion  some  summer's  day,  and  read  to 

19 


290  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

the  acompaniment  of  birds  and  rippling  water,  as  you  recline 
under  trees  by  the  bank  of  a  running  stream. 

The  H\mn   to   the  Seasons  gives  a  summing  up  of  the 
longer  poem,  and  we  will  read  the  opening  lines  from  this : 

"These  as  they  change,  Ahiiighty  Father,  these 
Are  but  the  varied  God.     The  rolling  year 
Is  full  of  Thee.     Forth  in  the  pleasing  Spring, 
Thy  beauty  walks.  Thy  tenderness  and  love 
Wide  flush  the  fields;  the  softening  air  is  balm; 
Echo  the  mountains  round  ;  the  forest  smiles, 
And  every  sense  and  every  heart  is  joy. 
Then  comes  Thy  glory  in  the  Summer  months, 
With  light  and  heat  refulgent.     Then  Thy  sun 
Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  swelling  year ; 
And  oft  thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder  speaks ; 
And  oft  at  morn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve, 
By  brooks  and  groves,  in  hollow  whispering  gales. 
Thy  bounty  shines  in  Autumn  unconfined, 
And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that  lives. 
In  Winter  awful  Thou  !  with  clouds  and  storms 
Around  Thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tempest  rolled, 
Majestic  darkness  !  On  tho  whirlwind's  wing 
Riding  sublime,  Thou  bid'st  the  world  adore. 
And  humblest  nature  with  Thy  northern  blast. 
Mysterious  round,  what  skill,  what  force  divine, 
Deep  felt,  in  these  appear!  a  simple  train. 
Yet  so  delightful  mi.xed,  with  such  kind  art. 
Such  beauty  and  beneficence  combined; 
Shade  unperceived  so  softening  into  shade, 
And  all  so  forming  an  harmonious  whole. 
That,  as  they  still  succeed,  they  ravish  still. 
But  w.mdering  oft  with  brute  unconscious  gaze, 
Man  marks  Thee  not ;  marks  not  the  mighty  hand. 
That,  ever  busy,  wheels  the  silent  spheres, 
Works  in  the  secret  deep,  shoots  steaming  thence 
The  fair  profusion  that  o'erspreads  the  Spring; 
Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming  day; 
Feeds  every  creature  ;  hurls  the  tempest  forth; 
And  as  on  earth  this  grateful  change  revolves, 
With  transport  touches  all  the  springs  of  life." 

William  Shenstone  lived  the  sort  of  life  that  the  poet 
1714-1763  ^°^^''^y  longed   for,  while   he   aspired   to   the  life 
that  Cowley  despised.     You  remember  that  Cow- 
ley, who  was  a  courtier,  was  always  picturing  the  delights  of 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  29 1 

a  little  estate  in  the  country  which  he  could  adorn  as  he 
chose,  and  where  he  might  spend  his  days  in  peaceful  quiet. 
Shenstone  had  just  such  a  little  estate  inherited  from  his 
father,  and  spent  all  his  time  and  fortune  embellishing  it  in 
the  most  fanciful  style  of  landscape  gardening,  till  he  made 
it  a  wonder  of  walks,  mazes,  arbors,  gardens,  and  running 
waters.  But  although  he  amused  himself  with  these  occu- 
pations, he  was  ambitious  for  political  honors,  and  a  little 
soured  and  disappointed  that  he  could  never  attain  to 
them. 

He  wrote  his  poetry  chiefly,  it  seems,  for  his  amusement, 
and  not  in  the  hope  of  any  special  reward.  In  his  child- 
hood he  had  been  sent  to  a  village  school  (called  in  Eng- 
land a  dame  school^,  dM^  his  most  noted  poem.  The  School- 
mistress, written  in  Spenserian  stanza,  pictures  the  dame  and 
her  school.  Here  are  a  few  verses  from  his  description  of 
the  schoolmistress  :  — 

"  Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven  snow, 

Emblem  right  meet  of  decency  does  yield ; 

Her  apron  dyed  in  grain  as  blue,  I  trow, 

As  in  the  harebell  that  adorns  the  field ; 

And  in  her  hand,  for  sceptre,  she  does  wield 

Tway  birchen  sprays,  with  anxious  fear  entwined, 

With  dark  distrust,  and  sad  repentance  filled, 

And  steadfast  hate,  and  sharp  affection  joined, 
And  fury  uncontrolled,  and  chastisement  unkind. 

"  A  russet  stole  was  o'er  her  shoulders  thrown ; 

A  russet  kirtle  fenced  the  nipping  air. 

'T  was  simple  russet,  but  it  was  her  own  ; 

'T  was  her  own  country  bred  the  flock  so  fair; 

'T  was  her  own  labor  did  the  fleece  prepare  ; 

And  sooth  to  say,  her  pupils  ranged  around. 

Through  pious  awe,  did  term  it  passing  rare; 

For  they  in  gaping  wonderment  abound, 
And  think,  no  doubt,  she  been  the  greatest  wight  on  ground. 

"  One  ancient  hen  she  took  delight  to  feed, 
The  plodding  pattern  of  the  busy  dame, 
Which  ever  and  anon,  impelled  by  need, 
Into  her  school,  l)egirt  with  chickens,  came,' — 
Such  favor  did  her  past  deportment  claim  ; 


292  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

And  if  neglect  had  lavished  on  the  ground 
Fragment  of  bread,  slie  would  collect  the  same  ; 
For  well  she  knew,  and  quaintly  could  expound, 
What  sin  it  were  to  waste  the  smallest  crumb  she  found. 

"  Right  well  she  knew  each  temper  to  descry, 
To  thwart  the  proud  and  the  submiss  to  raise ; 
Some  with  vile  copper-prize  exalt  on  high, 
And  some  entice  with  pittance  small  of  praise  ; 
And  other  some  with  baleful  sprig  she  'rays. 
Even  absent  she  the  reins  of  j^ower  doth  hold. 
While  with  quaint  arts  the  giddy  crowd  she  sways, 
Forewarned,  if  little  bird  their  pranks  behold, 
'Twill  whisper  in  her  ear,  and  all  the  scene  unfold." 

This  picture  of  the  old  dame  is  very  real ;  but  better  than 
The  Schoolmistress  I  like  a  pastoral  by  Shenstone,  which, 
although  written  in  a  jingling,  rather  commonplace  meas- 
ure, has  a  taste  of  the  old  ballad  in  it,  and  recalls  the  fresh 
days  of  poetry.  This  pastoral  is  in  four  parts,  —  Absence, 
Hope,  Solicitude,  Disappointment,  —  and  is  addressed  to 
Phyllis  by  the  Shepherd  Corydon.  These  are  a  few  stan- 
zas from  Part   II. :  — 

"  My  banks  they  arc  furnished  with  bees, 

Whose  murmur  invites  one  to  sleep; 
My  grottos  are  shaded  with  trees, 

And  my  hills  are  white  over  with  sheep ; 
I  seldom  have  met  with  a  loss, 

Such  health  do  my  fountains  bestow,  — 
My  fountains,  all  bordered  with  moss 

Where  the  harebells  and  violets  grow. 

"  Not  a  pine  in  my  grove  is  there  seen, 

But  with  tendrils  of  woodbine  is  bound ; 
Not  a  beech's  more  beautiful  green 

But  a  sweetbrier  entwines  it  around  ; 
Not  my  fields  in  the  prime  of  the  year 

More  charms  than  my  cattle  unfold  ; 
Not  a  brook  that  is  limpid  and  clear, 

But  it  glitters  with  fishes  of  gold. 

*'  I  have  found  out  a  gift  for  my  fair, 

I  have  found  where  the  wood-pigeons  breed; 
But  let  me  that  plunder  forbear. 

She  will  say  't  was  a  barbarous  deed. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  293 

For  he  ne'er  could  be  true,  she  averred, 
Who  could  rob  a  poor  bird  of  his  young, 

And  I  loved  her  the  more  when  I  heard 
Such  tenderness  fall  from  her  tongue. 

"  I  have  heard  her  with  sweetness  unfold 

How  that  pity  was  due  to  a  dove, 
That  it  ever  attended  the  bold, 

Artd  she  called  it  the  sister  of  Love; 
But  her  words  such  a  pleasure  convey, 

So  much  I  her  accents  adore. 
Let  her  speak,  and  whatever  she  say, 

Methinks  I  should  love  her  the  more. 

"  Can  a  bosom  so  gentle  remain 

Unmoved  when  her  Corydon  sighs? 
Will  a  nymph  that  is  fond  of  the  plain 

These  plains  and  this  valley  despise?  — 
Dear  regions  of  silence  and  shade. 

Soft  scenes  of  contentment  and  ease, 
Where  I  could  have  pleasingly  strayed. 

If  aught  in  her  absence  could  please." 


XLIII. 

Other  Eighteenth  Century  Poets,  —  Gray,  Collins, 
Akenside,  Beattie. 

NEAR  Shenstone  in  age  was  Thomas  Gr,\y,  who  has 
made  himself  immortal  by  one  poem,  and  that  one 
of  the    best  in  our  language,  —  the   Elegy  in  a  Country 
Churchyard.     He  has  written  several  odes,  one    ,_, 
to  Adversity,  another  On  a  Distant  Prospect  of 
Eton  College,  both  far  above  the  average  in  merit.     But  the 
Elegy  overshadows  all  else  he  has  done,  and  is  dear  to  all 
lovers  of  good  poetry.     Its  merit  was  recognized,  too,  from 
the  time  it  first  appeared,  —  which  is  a  little  unusual.     It 
nearly  always  happens  that  really  great  works  are  not  known 
to   be  great  till  time  has  sat  in  judgment  upon  them ;    it 
takes  distance  to  show  men  how  great  they  really  are. 
Gray  seems  to  have  been  like  the  youth  described  in  his 


294 


FAMILIAR    TALKS 


Elegy,  contemplative,  sad,  a  man  of  fastidious  tastes,  and 
not  quite  at  home  in  a  rough  world.  His  early  life  had 
been  clouded  by  unhappiness;  and  when  childhood,  the 
background  of  life,  is  obscured  by  sadness,  the  after-life 
often  takes  on  a  tinge  of  gloom.  The  Elegy  is  doubtless 
a  poem  that  you  already  know  by  heart.  Not  so  familiar, 
perhaps,  are  two  other  fine  odes  of  his,  The  Bard  and  The 
Progress  of  Poetry.  These  are,  however,  much  more  arti- 
ficial than  the  Ehgy,  which  owes  its  power  to  the  fact  that 
it  touches  so  many  responsive  chords  in  the  human  heart. 
Another  little  poem,  one  of  his  shortest  odes.  To  Spring, 
has  something  of  this  same  sympathetic  quality,  and  also 
has  those  touches  descriptive  of  scenes  and  sounds  in 
nature,  which  are  such  marked  beauties  of  the  Elegy.  For 
instance,  the  description  of  the  insect  youth  upon  the  wing 
is  a  dainty  bit  of  word-painting ;  while  "  through  \ht  peopled 
air  the  busy  murmur  glows,"  almost  equals  the  lines,  "The 
beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight,  While  drowsy  tinklings  lull 
the  distant  fold,"  in  the  Elegy.  But  we  will  read  the  Ode 
on  the  Spring  :  — 

"  Lo  !  where  the  rosy-bosomed  Hours, 

Fair  Venus'  train,  appear, 
Disclose  the  long-expected  flowers, 

And  wake  the  purple  year! 
The  Attic  warbler  pours  her  throat, 
Responsive  to  the  cuckoo's  note, 

The  untaught  harmony  of  Spring  ; 
While,  whispering  pleasure  as  they  fly, 
Cool  Zephyrs  through  the  clear  blue  sky 

Their  gathered  fragrance  fling. 

"  Where'er  the  oak's  thick  branches  stretch 

A  broader,  browner  shade  ; 
Where'er  the  rude  and  moss-grown  beech 

O'cr-canopies  the  glade, — 
Beside  some  water's  rushy  brink 
With  me  the  Muse  shall  sit,  and  think 
(At  ease  reclined  in  rustic  state) 

How  vain  the  ardor  of  the  crowd, 

llow  low,  how  little  arc  the  proud, 
How  indigent  the  great  I 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  295 

"  Still  is  the  toiling  hand  of  Care  ; 

The  panting  herds  repose  : 
Yet  hark,  how  through  the  peopled  air 

The  busy  murmur  glows  ! 
The  insect  youth  are  on  the  wing, 
Eager  to  taste  the  honied  spring, 
And  float  amid  the  liquid  noon  ; 

Some  lightly  o'er  the  current  skim, 

Some  show  their  gayly-gilded  trim, 
Quick  glancing  to  the  sun. 

"  To  Contemplation's  sober  eye 

Such  is  the  race  of  man  : 
And  they  that  creep,  and  they  that  fly. 

Shall  end  where  they  began. 
Alike  the  busy  and  the  gay 
But  flutter  through  life's  little  day. 
In  Fortune's  varying  colors  drest; 

Brushed  by  the  hand  of  rough  Mischance, 

Or  chilled  by  Age,  their  airy  dance 
They  leave,  in  dust  to  rest. 

"  Methinks  I  hear  in  accents  low 

The  sportive  kind  reply  ; 
'  Poor  moralist !  and  what  art  thou  ? 

A  solitary  fly ! 
Thy  joys  no  glittering  female  meets, 
No  hive  hast  thou  of  hoarded  sweets. 
No  painted  plumage  to  display  ; 

On  hasty  wings  thy  youth  is  flown, 

Thy  sun  is  set,  thy  spring  is  gone,  — 
We  frolic,  while  't  is  May.'  " 

William  Collins  had  one  of  those  natures  that  so  often 

form  a  poet :  he  had  a  head  full  of  fancies,  but 

•     .■       *       J  r     .    .    u        .X      X,     A  1720-1756 

an  organization  too  delicate  to  bear  the  hard  uses 

of  the  world.  While  in  college  he  wrote  a  series  of  Orien- 
tal Eclogues,  which  he  laughed  at  himself  in  later  years, 
saying  they  might  just  as  appropriately  have  been  called 
"Irish  Eclogues."  After  this  he  wrote  and  published  his 
Odes,  which  fell  dead  from  the  press.  The  unhappy  poet, 
disregarded  and  poor,  never  recovered  from  this  disap- 
pointment. He  led  a  gloomy,  morbid  life  for  several  years, 
often  in  debt,  and  sometimes  in  dissipation.  Samuel  John- 
son   (the  great  Dr.  Johnson)  tells  us  that  once  when  he 


296  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

went  to  see  the  poet,  a  bailiff  was  lurking  outside  his  lodg- 
ings, ready  to  arrest  him  for  debt.  Yet  Collins  was  a  man 
as  profound  in  learning  as  he  was  rich  in  Hincy.  Thus  the 
world  often  uses  the  men  best  able  to  serve  it.  In  the 
midst  of  his  distress  an  uncle  left  him  a  legacy  of  two 
thousand  pounds.  But  it  was  too  late.  He  showed  his 
bitterness  by  buying  the  edition  of  his  Odes  which  had 
been  published,  and  putting  it  into  the  flames.  Not  long 
after,  he  became  insane,  so  that  he  was  obliged  to  be  shut 
up  in  a  madhouse.  Death  came  mercifully  when  he  was 
thirty-six  years  old,  —  ten  years  after  he  had  published  his 
volume  of  poetry. 

His  Odes  are  on  divers  subjects, — Pity,  Fear,  Liberty, 
Simplicity,  etc.  The  one  best  known  is  the  Ode  to  the  Pas- 
sions, which  is  in  almost  every  poetical  collection  ;  that 
which  I  like  best  is  on  Evening,  and  I  quote  it  for  you. 
It  is  a  very  delicate  and  tender  poem,  like  the  hues  of  a 
soft  sunset.  In  those  days  of  artificial  poetry  there  are 
Iq.\\  poems  that  can  compare  with  this  for  natural  grace ; 
and  some  of  the  lines,  as  where  he  speaks  of  Evening  with 
dewy  fingers  drawing  "  the  gradual,  dusky  veil,"  remind 
one  of  Milton's  early  poems  :  — 

ODE  TO    EVENING. 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song, 

May  hope,  oh,  pensive  Eve,  to  soothe  thy  modest  ear 

Like  thy  own  brawling  sjirings, 

Thy  springs  and  dying  gales, 

O  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright-haired  sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts, 

With  bredc  ethereal  wove, 

O'erhaiig  his  wavy  bed  ;  — 

Now  air  is  hushed,  save  where  the  weak-eyed  bat. 
With  short,  shrill  shriek  flies  by  on  leathern  wing; 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn. 

As  oft  he  rises  midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum. 

Now  teach  me,  maid  composed, 

To  breathe  some  softened  strain. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  297 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  darkening  vale, 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit, 

As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 

Thy  genial  loved  return  ! 

For  when  thy  folding  star,  arising,  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp, 

The  fragrant  Hours,  and  elves 

Who  slept  in  buds  the  day, 

And  many  a  nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows  with  sedge, 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier  still, 

The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet, 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  let  me  rove  some  wild  and  heathy  scene, 
Or  find  some  ruin  midst  its  dreary  dells. 

Whose  walls  more  awful  nod. 

By  thy  religious  gleams. 

Or,  if  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driving  rain. 
Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 

That  from  the  mountain's  side 

Views  wilds  and  swelling  floods. 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered  spires, 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all. 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he  wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve  ! 

While  Summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves ; 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train. 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes  : 

So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule, 

Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  smiling  Peace, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 

And  love  thy  favorite  name." 

The  Pleasures  of  the  Imaginatioti,  by  Dr.  Mark  Aken- 
siDE,  and  The  Minstrel,  by  Dr.  Tames  Beattie. 

1721—1770 

deserve  at  least  a  passing  mention.    The  Pleasures 

of  the  Imagination  is  a  blank-verse  poem  from  which  we 


298  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

could  cull  fine  passages,  although  it  is  stiff,  and  dull  to  read 
all  through.  The  Minstrel  is  in  Spenserian  measure ;  its 
hero,  Edwin,  a  youth  full  of  aspiration  and  good- 
ness, is  tutored  by  an  old  hermit,  who  discourses 
to  him  on  all  noble  themes.  Beattie  also  wrote  that  ballad 
of  The  Hermit  whose  opening  lines  are  so  familiar  :  — 

'At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is  still, 
And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetf ulness  prove." 

Beattie  published  his  works  as  the  last  quarter  of  the 
century  began.  Before  we  enter  upon  a  period  full  of 
events,  I  wish  to  go  back  a  space  and  trace  for  you  the 
history  of  the  novel  in  the  eighteenth  century. 


XLIV. 

On  the  Birth  of  the  English  Novel;  Richardson  and 
Fielding. 

THE  novel,  which  in  the  present  is  the  most  widely  read 
of  any  kind  of  book  that  issues  from  the  printing- 
press,  is  really  a  plant  of  comparatively  recent  growth  in 
literature.  In  my  Talks  thus  far,  I  have  been  able  to  show 
you  very  few  works  of  prose  fiction.  In  the  sixteenth 
century  there  were  occasional  long  and  rather  tedious 
romances,  among  the  best  of  which  are  Sidney's  Arcadia 
and  Lyly's  Euphues.  In  the  seventeenth  century  we  have 
no  great  work  that  can  be  called  a  novel,  unless  we  should 
reckon  John  Bunyan's  Piii^rim's  Progress  in  the  list. 

The  nearest  approach  to  the  prose  fiction  of  the  present, 
previous  to  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  is  found 
in  De  Foe's  works,  which  are  nearly  all  biographical  rela- 
tions, like  Robinson  Crusoe  and  Colonel  Jack. 

I  think,  therefore,  the  birth  of  the  modern  novel  of  society, 
reflecting  the  life,  manners,  and  conversation  of  the  age,  is 
usually  dated  from  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
when  Richardson  and   Fielding  began   to  write. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  299 

The  pioneer  in  the  novel  of  sentiment,  which  has  for  its 
subject  the  various  distresses  and  moving  situations  in  the 
lives  of  a  pair  of  lovers,  is  Samuel  Richardson.  The  first 
fifty  years  of  his  life  seem  to  have  been  a  slow 

1G89— 1761 

preparation  for  the  work  which  filled    his   later 
years.     He  was  a  delicate  and  rather  shy  boy,  who  sought 
the  society  of  women  and  girls  rather  than  of  boys  of  his 
own  age. 

He  showed  early  an  ability  for  letter-writing,  and  when 
a  boy  was  largely  employed  by  the  young  women  of  his 
acquaintance  in  writing  their  love-letters.  In  this  way,  no 
doubt,  the  style  afterwards  used  in  his  novels  —  all  of  which 
are  written  in  the  form  of  letters  —  was  first  formed.  But 
notwithstanding  his  early  experience  with  the  pen,  Richard- 
son was  not  drawn  from  the  ordinary  pursuits  of  life  by  it. 
He  was  bred  a  printer,  learned  his  trade  thoroughly,  and 
when  he  had  served  a  seven  years'  apprenticeship  married 
his  master's  daughter  and  went  into  business  for  himself,  in 
the  good  old  orthodox  style  of  doing  things.  He  was  over 
fifty  years  old,  in  easy  circumstances,  living  in  a  snug  little 
villa,  the  fruit  of  his  honest  labors,  when  he  began  to  write 
his  first  novel.  He  says  that  two  publishers,  business 
friends,  whom  he  had  often  furnished  with  prefaces  and 
other  garnishes  to  the  works  he  printed  for  them,  asked 
him  why  he  did  not  write  some  letters  in  the  form  of  a 
novel,  illustrating  scenes  in  real  life.  They  probably  saw 
his  talent  in  that  direction,  and  thought  that  by  means  of  it 
they  might  turn  an  honest  penny  for  themselves  and  him. 
He  took  their  advice,  and  his  first  famous  novel,  Pamela, 
was  the  result. 

Were  we  to  read  Pamela  to-day,  knowing  nothing  of  its 
history,  the  excitement  and  delight  it  caused  on  its  first 
appearance  would  be  incredible.  While  he  was  writing  it 
he  began  by  reading  a  little  to  his  wife  and  a  young  lady 
visitor ;  and  after  that  he  says  they  came  every  night  to  his 
study,  saying,  "  Have  you  any  more  of  Pamela,  Mr.  Rich- 
ardson?    We  have  come  to  have  a  httle  more  oi  Pamela." 

On  its  publication  the  story  took  every  woman's  heart  by 


300  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Storm ;  nor  was  the  admiration  of  the  book  confined  to 
women  only  :  it  was  read  by  men  of  the  world  as  well  as  by 
scholars  and  critics.  It  created  a  sensation  almost  as  great 
in  France  as  in  England,  and  the  greatest  thinkers  in 
France,  who  were  laying  the  foundations  of  ideas  that  were 
soon  to  appear  in  the  French  Revolution,  left  off  for  the 
time  discussion  of  graver  matters,  while  they  read  with  de- 
light Samuel  Richardson's  novels. 

It  was  several  years  after  Pamela  that  Clarissa  Harlowe 
appeared.  This  was  his  greatest  success,  and  carried  him 
to  a  height  of  fame  that  might  have  turned  a  stronger  head 
than  his.  In  both  novels  the  plot  had  the  same  mainspring. 
Each  heroine  is  subjected  to  the  persecutions  of  an  unprin- 
cipled lover,  through  whose  baseness  she  suffers  all  kinds  of 
trials ;  in  the  end  the  servant-maid,  Pamela,  turns  her  suitor 
into  a  good  husband  by  force  of  her  beauty  and  virtues, 
while  the  gifted  Clarissa  sinks  under  the  wrongs  she  suffers 
from  the  depraved  Lovelace,  and  after  calmly  arranging  her 
funeral,  even  to  the  fitting  up  of  her  coffin,  she  passes 
away  amid  the  lamentations  of  friends  and  relatives. 

Richardson  has  been  specially  praised  because  he  drew 
his  characters  from  life,  and  brought  fiction  from  the  re- 
gions of  stilted  romance  into  the  ordinary  walks  of  human 
life.  This  is  one  of  his  merits,  although  in  endeavoring  to 
be  realistic  he  is  sometimes  ludicrous.  When  Lovelace 
goes  to  see  Clarissa,  he  writes  to  Iklford  the  following  ac- 
count of  her  dress,  for  which  we  ought  to  be  obliged  to 
him,  since  it  gives  us  a  picture  of  a  well-dressed  woman  in 
the  year  1750  ;  but  it  seems  a  little  out  of  place  from  a  man 
who  is  in  a  delirium  of  joy  at  meeting  his  beloved  :  — 

"  Thou  shalt  judge  of  her  dress.  I  am  a  critic,  thou  know'st, 
in  women's  dresses.  There  is  such  a  native  elegance  in  this 
lady  that  she  surpasses  all  that  I  could  imagine  surpassing.  But 
then  her  person  adorns  what  she  wears,  more  than  dress  can 

adorn  her Her  headdress  was  Brussels  lace,  peculiarly 

adapted  to  the  charming  air  and  turn  of  her  features  ;  a  sky-blue 
ribbon  illustrated  that.  .  .  .  Her  gown  was  a  pale  primrose, 
colored  paduasoy,  the  cuffs  and  robings  curiously  embroidered 
by  the  fingers   of  this   ever-charming  Arachne   in   a   running 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


301 


pattern  of  violets  and  their  leaves ;  a  pair  of  diamond  snaps 
in  her  ears.  Her  ruffles  were  the  same  as  her  cap,  her  apron 
flowered  lawn,  her  petticoat  white  satin  quilted,  her  shoes  blue 
satin  braided  with  the  same  color,  without  lace,  — for  what  need 
has  the  prettiest  foot  in  the  world  of  ornament?  Neat  buckles 
on  them,  and  on  her  charming  arms  a  pair  of  black  velvet 
glove-like  muffs." 

But  it  is  his  description  of  Clarissa's  preparations  for  her 
death,  and  all  the  circumstances  attending  it,  that  Richard- 
son's genius  rises  to  its  full  height.  All  preparations  for 
the  burial  are  described  with  the  minuteness  of  a  fashion- 
able auctioneer's  catalogue.  Belford,  the  friend  of  Love- 
lace, writes  thus  to  him  after  a  visit  to  Clarissa,  who  is 
sinking  rapidly  into  a  decline  :  — 

"  She  had  slept  better,  I  found,  than  I,  though  her  solemn  re- 
pository [her  coffin,  which  Clarissa  ordered  some  time  before 
death]  was  under  her  window  not  far  from  her  bedside.  I  was 
prevailed  on  to  go  up  and  look  at  the  devices.  Mrs.  Lovick 
has  since  shown  me  a  copy  of  the  draught  by  which  all  was 
ordered,  and  I  will  give  thee  a  sketch  of  the  symbols. 

"  The  principal  device,  neatly  etched,  on  a  plate  of  white 
metal,  is  a  crowned  serpent  with  its  tail  in  its  mouth,  forming  a 
ring,  the  emblem  of  eternity ;  and  in  the  circle  made  by  it  is  this 
inscription  : — 

"CLARISSA  HARLOWE, 
"April   X., 
[Then  the  year] 
"yEtat.   XLX. 

"  For  ornaments:  at  top  an  hour-glass,  winged;  at  bottom,  an 
urn.     Under  the  hour-glass,  on  another  plate,  this  inscription  : 

"  '  Here  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  here  the  weary  be  at 
rest.''    Job  3-17. 

"  Over  the  urn,  near  the  bottom :  — 

"  Turn  again  unto  thy  rest,  O  my  soul  !  For  the  Lord  hath 
rewarded  thee;  and  why?  '  Thou  hast  delivered  my  soul  from 
death,  mitie  eyes  from  tears,  and  my  feet  from  falling.'  Ps. 
cxvi.  7,  8. 

"Over  this  text  is  the  head  of  a  white  lily  snapped  short  off 
and  just  falling  from  the  stalk  ;  and  this  inscription  over  that, 
between  the  principal  plate  and  the  lily :  — 


302 


FAMILIAR    TALKS 


"  '  The  clays  of  man  are  but  as  grass  :  for  he  fiourishcth  as  a 
flower  of  the  field.  For  as  soon  as  the  wind  goeth  over  it,  it  is 
gone:  and  the  place  thereof  shall  know  it  no  more."  Ps.  ciii. 
15,  16. 

"  She  excused  herself  to  the  women  on  the  score  of  her  youth, 
and  being  used  to  draw  for  her  needle-works,  for  havhig  shown 
more  fancy  than  would  perhaps  be  thought  suitable  on  so  sol- 
emn an  occasion.  The  date,  April  loth,  she  accounted  for  as 
not  being  able  to  tell  what  her  closing  day  would  be,  and  as  that 
was  the  fatal  day  of  her  leaving  her  father's  house.  .  .  .  The 
burial  dress  was  brought  home  with  it  [the  coffin].  The  women 
had  curiosity  enough,  I  suppose,  to  see  her  open  that.  And, 
perhaps,  thou  wouldst  have  been  glad  to  have  been  present  to 
have  admired  it  too." 

If  Clarissa  had  been  a  female  undertaker,  she  could  not 
more  admirably  have  arranged  for  her  death  and  burial ; 
yet  all  this,  which  seems  to  the  modern  reader  overstrained 
sentimentality,  sent  the  readers  of  that  age  weeping  to  their 
beds. 

It  is  said  that  so  many  young  women  of  the  time  fell  in 
love  with  Lovelace,  in  spite  of  his  'vices,  that  Richardson 
felt  as  if  he  must  write  a  novel  which  should  contain  an  anti- 
dote to  the  dangerous  fascinations  of  the  hero  of  Clarissa. 
He  accordingly  constructed  the  character  of  Sir  Charles 
Grandison,  who  was  rich,  well-born,  well-bred,  and  a  walking 
encyclopaedia  of  all  the  virtues.  You  remember  the  hero  in 
the  fairy  tale,  whose  gifts  from  eleven  good  fairies  are  at  last 
made  null  and  void  by  the  curse  of  one  evil  f;iiry.  This 
evil  fairy  came  in  at  Sir  Charles  Grandison's  baptism  to 
endow  him  with  insupportable  priggishness  ;  so  that  in  spite 
of  his  virtues  one  can  hardly  endure  him  through  the  seven 
volumes  that  make  this  formidable  story,  which,  I  fancy, 
very  few  readers  of  modern  novels  will  ever  read  through. 
Walter  Scott  tells  a  story  of  an  old  lady  of  advanced  age 
who  preferred  to  have  Sir  Charles  Grafulisofi  read  aloud 
to  her  above  all  other  books,  "Because,"  she  said,  "should 
I  fall  asleep  in  the  course  of  the  reading,  I  am  sure  I  shall 
have  lost  none  of  it,  but  shall  find  the  characters  where  I 
left  them,  talking  together  in  the  cedar  parlor." 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  303 

Henry  Fielding,  the  greatest  novelist  of  the  group,  owed 

his  first  success  to  a  desire  to  satirize  Richardson.  ,„„„  ,„^^ 

1707-1754 
His  first  novel,  Joseph  Andrews,  was  written  to 

ridicule  Richardson's  Pamela  ;  but  it  was  so  interesting  and 
witty  that  readers  forgot  it  was  intended  for  a  burlesque, 
and  read  the  story  for  its  own  sake. 

Fielding  is  as  hearty  and  vigorous  as  Richardson  is  senti- 
mental. The  two  authors  evidently  did  not  like  each  other, 
and  the  reason  was  grounded  in  nature,  and  not  in  any 
rivalry  as  authors.  Fielding's  novels  are  the  first  novels  in 
literature  at  once  powerful,  dramatic,  and  realistic.  Yet  it 
is  difficult  for  any  one  bred  in  an  age  more  refined,  and 
especially  for  a  woman,  to  enjoy  heartily  a  story  which 
depicts  characters  so  immoral,  or  scenes  so  repulsive  as 
are  found  in  Tom  Jones,  Fielding's  greatest  novel.  It 
hardly  lessens  our  distaste  to  know  that  it  is  true  to  the  life 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  when  we  like  so  little  the  kind 
of  life  it  depicts.  Yet  their  overflowing  humor,  their  keen 
insight  into  human  nature,  and  their  fresh,  wholesome  style, 
have  kept  the  novels  of  Fielding  at  the  very  top  of  English 
fiction ;  and  the  debt  our  modern  nov'elists,  Thackeray, 
Dickens,  and  many  of  lesser  note,  owe  to  him,  is  never  to 
be  reckoned.  I  cannot  do  better  justice  to  Fielding  than 
by  quoting  a  paragraph  from  what  Thackeray  says  of  him  ;  ^ 

"What  a  genius!  what  a  vigor!  what  a  bright-eyed  intelli- 
gence and  observation !  what  a  wholesome  hatred  for  meanness 
and  knavery!  what  a  vast  sympathy!  what  a  cheerfulness  I 
what  a  manly  relish  of  life !  what  a  love  of  human  kind !  what 
a  PORT  is  here  !  watching,  meditating,  brooding,  creating!  what 
multitudes  of  truths  has  that  man  left  behind  him !  what  gen- 
erations he  has  taught  to  laugh  wisely  and  fairly !  what  scholars 
he  has  formed  and  accustomed  to  the  exercise  of  thoughtful 
humor  and  the  manly  play  of  wit !  what  a  courage  he  had  !  what 
a  dauntless  and  constant  cheerfulness  of  intellect,  that  burned 
bright  and  steady  through  all  the  storms  of  his  life  and  never 
deserted  its  last  wreck.  It  is  wonderful  to  think  of  the  pains 
and  misery  whicli  the  man  suffered,  the  pressure  of  want,  ill- 
ness, remorse,  wliich   he   endured,   and   that  the   writer  was 

1  Lectures  on  the  English  Humorists. 


304  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

neither   malignant   nor   melancholy,   his   view  of   truth   never 
warped,  and  his  generous  human  kindness  never  surrendered." 

On  such  a  tribute,  from  such  a  man,  I  think  we  may  fairly 
\et  Fielding's  merits  rest. 


XLV. 

The  Novelists  Smollett  and  Sterne. 

TOBIAS  SMOLLETT  is  another  of  the  great  novelists 
of  the  period.    Roderick  Random,  Peregrine  Pickle y 
,««.  ,— ,   aiT'd  Humphrey  Clinker  are  the  titles  of  his  most 

1721— l7Tl 

famous  fictions.     But  his  pages  are  disfigured  by 

the  same  coarseness  that  repels  us  in  Fielding,  and  he  has 

not  nearly  as  much  genius.     Thackeray,  whose  opinion  of 

Fielding  we  have  just  quoted,  says  he  thinks  Humphrey 

Clinker  the   most   laughable   story  ever  written  since  the 

goodly  art  of  novel-writing  began ;  and  Dickens  has  borne 

testimony  to  Smollett's  power  in  his  own  novel  of  David 

Copperfield,  where  he  relates  how  David  kept  Steerforth  and 

the  other  boys  awake  in  the  dormitory  while  he  narrated  the 

adventures  of  Roderick  or  Peregrine  or  Humphrey. 

Laurence  Sterne,  author  of  Tristram  Shandy,  was  only 

second   to  Richardson  in  sentimentality,  and   to 

^.  ,  ,.       .  TT    1         ,  r    1        f  1713-1768 

Fiekhng  m  wit.     He  has  the  same  faults  of  gross- 

ness  that  we  complain  of  in  the  others,  and  he  is,  on  the 
whole,  less  wholesome  than  any  of  them.  But  some  of  the 
characters  in  Tristram  Shandy  will  always  live  in  literature, 
particularly  that  of  good  Uncle  Toby,  who  is  one  of  the 
most  delightful  personages  of  fiction.  You  all  have  heard 
of  Uncle  Toby,  —  of  his  goodness  to  Le  Fevrc  ;  his  embar- 
rassments with  the  Widow  Wadman  ;  his  humane  little  speech 
when  he  takes  out  the  fly  from  the  milk-jug  and  sets  it  to 
dry  in  the  sun,  "  There  is  room  enough  in  the  world  for 
thee  and  for  me."     All  these  characteristics  make  him  an 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  305 

immortal  figure  in  literature,  one  to  set  beside  Addison's 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  or  our  own  dear  Mr.  Pickwick. 

The  Sentimental  Journey  is  the  record  of  a  tour  which 
Sterne  made  on  the  Continent ;  and  here  is  an  extract  from 
it,  which  is  a  good  illustration  of  Sterne's  style.  He  has  been 
to  visit  the  Bastile,  and  is  seized  with  these  reflections  : 

" '  And  as  for  the  Bastile,'  said  I  to  myself, '  the  terror  is  in  the 
word.  Make  the  most  of  it  you  can,  the  Bastile  is  but  another 
word  for  a  tower ;  and  a  tower  is  but  another  word  for  a  house 
you  can't  get  out  of.  Mercy  on  the  gouty,  they  are  in  it  twice 
a  year ;  but  with  nine  livres  a  day,  and  pen  and  ink  and  paper, 
and  patience,  albeit  a  man  can't  get  out,  he  may  do  very  well 
within,  at  least  for  a  month  or  six  weeks ;  at  the  end  of  which, 
if  he  is  a  harmless  fellow,  his  innocence  appears,  and  he  comes 
out  a  better  and  wiser  man  than  when  he  went  in.'  I  had  some 
occasion  (I  forget  what)  to  step  into  the  courtyard  as  I  settled 
this  account ;  and  remember  I  walked  downstairs  in  no  small 
triumph  with  the  conceit  of  my  reasoning.  '  Beshrew  the  som- 
bre pencil,'  said  I,  vauatingly  ;  'for  I  envy  not  its  powers,  which 
paints  the  evils  of  life  with  so  hard  and  deadly  a  coloring.  The 
mind  sits  terrified  at  the  objects  she  has  magnified  herself  and 
blackened  ;  reduce  them  to  the  proper  size  and  hue,  and  she 
overlooks  them.  'Tis  true,'  I  said,  correcting  the  proposition, 
'the  Bastile  is  not  an  evil  to  be  despised;  but  strip  it  of  its 
towers,  fill  up  the  fosse,  unbarricade  the  doors,  call  it  simply  a 
confined  place,  and  suppose  it  is  some  tyrant  of  a  distemper,  and 
not  of  a  man,  which  holds  you  in  it,  half  the  evil  vanishes,  and 
you  bear  the  other  half  without  complaint.'  I  was  interrupted 
in  the  heyday  of  this  soliloquy  with  a  voice  which  I  took  to  be 
that  of  a  child,  which  complained  it  could  not  get  out.  I  looked 
up  and  down  the  passage,  and  seeing  neither  man,  woman,  nor 
child,  I  went  out  without  further  attention.  In  my  return  back 
through  the  passage,  I  heard  the  same  words  repeated  twice 
over  and  looking  up,  I  saw  it  was  a  starling  hung  in  a  little 
cage.  'I  can't  get  out;  I  can't  get  out,' said  the  starling.  I 
stood  looking  at  the  bird,  and  to  every  person  who  came  through 
the  passage  it  ran  fluttering  to  the  side  towards  which  they  ap- 
proached it  with  the  same  lamentation  of  its  captivity. 

"  '  I  cant  get  out,''  said  the  starling.  '  God  help  thee,'  said  I ; 
'but  I  '11  let  thee  out,  cost  what  it  will ; '  so  I  turned  about  the 
cage  to  get  the  door.  It  was  twisted  and  double-twisted  so  fast 
with  wire  that  there  was  no  getting  it  open  without  pulling  the 

20 


306  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

cage  to  pieces.  I  took  both  hands  to  it.  The  bird  flew  to  the 
phice  where  I  was  attempting  his  dehverance,  and  thrusting  his 
head  through  the  trellis,  pressed  his  breast  against  it  as  if  im- 
patient. '  I  fear,  poor  creature,'  said  I,  'I  cannot  set  thee  at 
liberty.'  '  I  can't  get  out ;  I  can't  get  out,'  said  the  starling.  I 
vow,  I  never  had  my  affections  more  tenderly  awakened,  nor  do 
I  remember  an  incident  in  my  life  where  the  dissipated  spirits, 
to  which  my  reason  had  been  a  bubble,  were  so  suddenly  called 
home.  Mechanical  as  the  notes  were,  yet  so  true  in  tune  to 
Nature  were  they  chanted  that  in  one  moment  they  overthrew 
all  my  systematic  reasonings  upon  the  Bastile ;  and  I  walked 
heavily  upstairs,  unsaying  every  word  I  had  said  in  going  down 
them. 

"  '  Disguise  thyself  as  thou  wilt,  still.  Slavery,'  said  I, '  thou  art 
a  bitter  draught ;  and  though  thousands  in  all  ages  have  been 
made  to  drink  of  thee,  thou  art  no  less  bitter  on  that  account. 
'Tis  thou^  thrice  sweet  and  gracious  goddess,'  addressing  my- 
self to  Liberty,  '  whom  all,  in  public  or  in  private,  worship,  whose 
taste  is  grateful,  and  ever  will  be  so  till  Nature  herself  shall 
change;  no  tint  of  words  can  spot  thy  snowy  mantle,  or  chemic 
power  turn  thy  sceptre  into  iron  ;  with  thee  to  smile  upon  him 
as  he  eats  his  crust,  the  swain  is  happier  than  the  monarch,  from 
whose  court  thou  art  exiled.  '  Gracious  Heaven  ! '  cried  I,  kneel- 
ing down  on  the  last  step  but  one  in  my  ascent,  '  grant  me  but 
health,  thou  great  bestower  of  it,  and  give  me  but  this  fair  god- 
dess as  my  companion,  and  shower  down  thy  mitres,  if  it  seem 
good  unto  thy  divine  providence,  upon  those  heads  that  are 
aching  for  them.' 

"  The  bird  in  his  cage  pursued  me  into  my  room.  I  sat  down 
close  to  my  table,  and  leaning  my  head  upon  my  hand,  I  began 
to  figure  to  myself  the  miseries  of  confinement.  I  was  in  a  right 
frame  for  it.  and  so  I  gave  full  scope  to  my  imagination;  I  was 
going  to  begin  with  the  millions  of  my  fellow-creatures  born  to 
no  inheritance  but  slavery ;  but  finding,  however  affecting  that 
picture  was,  that  I  could  not  bring  it  near  me,  and  that  the 
multitude  of  sad  groups  in  it  did  but  distract  me,  I  took  a  single 
captive,  and  having  first  shut  him  up  in  his  dungeon,  I  then 
looked  through  the  twilight  of  his  grated  door  to  take  his  pic- 
ture. I  beheld  his  body  half  wasted  away  with  long  expectation 
and  confinement,  and  felt  what  kind  of  sickness  of  the  heart  it 
was  that  arises  from  hope  deferred.  Upon  looking  nearer  I  saw 
him  pale  and  feverish  ;  in  thirty  years  the  western  breeze  had 
not  once  fanned  his  blood;  he  had  seen  no  sun,  no  moon,  in  all 
that  time,  nor  had   tlic  voice  of  friend  or  kinsman  breathed 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  307 

through  his  lattice  ;  his  children  —  But  here  my  heart  began  to 
bleed,  and  I  was  forced  to  go  on  with  another  part  of  the  por- 
trait. He  was  sitting  upon  the  ground  upon  a  little  straw  in  the 
furthest  corner  of  his  dungeon,  which  was  alternately  his  chair 
and  his  bed ;  a  little  calendar  of  small  sticks  lay  at  the  head, 
notched  all  over  with  the  dismal  nights  and  days  he  had  passed 
there ;  he  had  one  of  these  little  sticks  in  his  hand,  and  with  a 
rusty  nail  he  was  etching  another  day  of  misery  to  add  to  the 
heap.  As  I  darkened  the  little  light  he  had,  he  lifted  up  a 
hopeless  eye  towards  the  door,  then  cast  it  down,  shook  his 
head,  and  went  on  with  his  work  of  affliction.  I  heard  his 
chains  upon  his  legs  as  he  turned  his  body  to  lay  his  little  stick 
upon  the  bundle.  He  gave  a  deep  sigh;  I  saw  the  iron  enter 
into  his  soul.  I  burst  into  tears.  I  could  not  sustain  the  pic- 
ture of  confinement  which  my  fancy  had  drawn," 

It  seems  a  pity  to  end  by  saying  that  the  man  who  could 
write  thus  feelingly  seems  to  have  had  very  little  real  feel- 
ing in  his  nature,  and  that  by  all  accounts  he  was  selfish 
and  cold-hearted. 


XLVI. 
On  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson. 

IN  several  of  the  notable  periods  in  literature  you  will 
find  some  one  man  who,  by  force  of  his  genius  or  his 
character,  exercises  a  sort  of  royal  rule  over  his  fellows. 
In  the  Elizabethan  age  Ben  Jonson  held  such  a  sway  over 
his  literary  circle,  partly  because  he  had  great  ability,  and 
partly  because  his  good  opinion  of  himself  was  so  strong 
that  he  was  able  to  impress  it  upon  other  men.  In  the 
last  quarter  of  the  seventeenth  century  Dryden  exercised 
an  almost  unlimited  power.  Sitting  in  his  chair  at  Will's 
Coffee-house,  he  appears  as  much  of  an  autocrat  as  if  he 
had  been  a  crowned  king  of  letters.  Something  of  the  same 
sway  over  men  and  affairs  Dean  Swift  held  in  the  Augustan 
age.     But  none  of  these  wielded  a  power  so  absolute  or  of 


3o8  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

SO  long  duration  as  did  Samuel  Johnson,  who  for  many  years 

of  his  life  and  long  after  his  death   was  a  sort  of  despot, 

from  whom  there  was  no  appeal. 

Of  all  the  men  of  the  past  whose  acquaintance  we  make 

through  books,  I  do  not  remember  one  whom  we  know  so 

much  about,  or  can  see  so  vividly,  as  Dr.  Samuel 
1709-1784 

Johnson.     Our  thanks  for  this  are  due  to  the 

man  who  wrote  his  life,  James  Boswell,  a  Scotchman,  famil- 
iarly called  "  Bozzy,"  who  for  years  was  happy  to  stand  in 
the  background  of  Johnson's  greatness,  looking  at  him 
with  reverent  admiration,  eagerly  waiting  upon  every  word 
that  fell  from  his  lips,  that  he  might  treasure  it  up  to  send 
down  to  posterity.  Nothing  was  too  trivial  for  Boswell ;  if 
Dr.  Johnson  sneezed,  down  went  the  fact  in  Boswell's  note- 
book. The  result  is  that  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson  is  one 
of  the  most  minute  and  most  entertaining  biographies  ever 
written ;  and  although  we  laugh  at  the  author,  we  shall  be 
always  grateful  to  him. 

It  was  the  strong  and  sterling  forces  of  character  that 
got  Dr.  Johnson  his  footing  in  the  world.  He  had  neither 
good  looks,  elegant  manners,  fine  tact,  nor  any  personal 
graces  to  help  him.  Lacking  all  these,  he  yet  rose  from 
obscurity  to  a  very  high  place  in  his  day  and  generation. 

He  was  born  in  the  little  town  of  Lichfield,  and  was 
twenty-eight  years  old  when  he  started  for  London,  to  begin 
there  his  literary  career.  David  Garrick,  afterwards  the 
great  actor,  who  had  been  Johnson's  schoolfellow  and 
later  his  pupil,  was  his  companion  in  this  journey.  John- 
son's capital  in  trade  was  his  tragedy  of  Irene,  which  he 
carried  in  his  pocket,  while'  Garrick  had  little  more  than 
a  gay  heart  and  his  dramatic  genius  to  start  with.  The 
tragedy  of  Irene  never  made  a  success,  even  with  Garrick's 
genius  to  uphold  it ;  but  Johnson  climbed  steadily  to 
power. 

His  early  days  in  London  are  pathetic  to  read  about. 
He  was  very  poor,  sometimes  so  poor  that  he  walked  the 
streets  at  night  because  he  had  no  money  to  pay  his  lodg- 
ing.    His  clothes  were  often  so  shabby  that  he  could  not 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  309 

appear  in  respectable  society.  After  he  had  written  some 
articles  which  attracted  notice,  in  the  Gentlemari' s  Alaga- 
zine,  the  pubhsher,  Mr.  Cave,  invited  him  to  dinner  to 
meet  some  friends  who  were  anxious  to  see  a  man  who 
could  write  with  such  power.  Johnson  came  to  the  dinner ; 
but  his  clothes  were  so  poor  that  he  dined  behind  a  screen 
out  of  sight  of  the  guests.  But  nothing  could  crush  him, 
although  once  in  after  life,  when  he  was  prosperous  and 
honored,  in  recalling  the  miseries  of  a  poor  author  he 
burst  into  tears  at  the  sharp  remembrance  of  them.  By 
and  by  his  articles,  which  he  wrote  for  newspapers  and 
magazines,  began  to  attact  attention.  Pope  praised  him ; 
Richardson  the  printer  (who  afterwards  wrote  Clarissa 
Harlowe)  admired  him  ;  the  publishers  began  to  inquire 
him  out ;  and  soon  his  lot  grew  easier. 

His  first  notable  work  was  a  Dictiojiary  of  the  English 
Language^  which  his  publisher  engaged  him  to  make, 
agreeing  to  pay  him  fifteen  hundred  and  seventy-five  pounds 
for  the  work,  paid  in  instalments,  a  guinea  at  a  time,  as  he 
furnished  the  copy.  He  agreed  to  complete  the  work  in 
three  years;  but  although  begun  in  1747,  it  was  not  pub- 
lished till  1755.  In  the  mean  time  he  did  other  work.  It 
occurred  to  him  in  his  intervals  of  compiling  the  dictionary 
to  edit  a  paper  on  the  plan  of  Addison  and  Steele  in  The 
Spectator,  and  thus  he  began  The  Rambler,  writing  a  series 
of  two  hundred  papers  by  that  name.  Of  all  his  works 
none  was  so  popular  as  this.  Goldsmith  gives  the  general 
opinion  about  it  in  one  of  his  essays  called  The  Fa?ne 
Machine,  in  which  he  represents  a  small  carriage  as  tak- 
ing passengers  to  the  Temple  of  Fame.  As  Goldsmith  is 
talking  to  the  coachman,  he  says,  a  grave  personage 
appeared,  — 

"Whom  at  some  distance  I  took  for  one  of  the  most  re- 
served and  even  disagreeable  figures  I  had  ever  seen;  but  as  he 
approached,  his  appearance  improved,  and  when  I  could  dis- 
tinguish him  thoroughly,  I  perceived  that  in  spite  of  the  severity 
of  his  brow,  he  had  one  of  the  most  good-natured  countenances 
that  could  be  imagined.     Upon  coming  to  open  the  stage-door, 


3IO  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

he  lifted  a  parcel  of  folios  into  the  seat  before  him;  but  our 
inquisitorial  coachman  at  once  shoved  them  out  again.  *  What, 
not  take  in  my  Dictionary?'  exclaimed  the  other,  in  a  rage. 
'  Be  patient,  sir,'  replied  the  coachman ;  '  I  have  drove  a  coach, 
man  and  boy,  these  two  thousand  years ;  but  I  do  not  remember 
to  have  carried  above  one  dictionary  during  the  whole  time. 
That  little  work  which  I  perceive  peeping  from  one  of  your 
pockets,  may  I  presume  to  ask  what  it  contains  .>"  'A  mere 
trifle,'  replied  the  author;  'it  is  called  The  Rambler.''  '■The 
Rambler!''  cries  the  coachman;  'I  beg,  sir,  you'll  take  your 
place.  I  have  heard  our  ladies  in  the  court  of  Apollo  frequently 
mention  it  with  rapture,  and  Clio,  who  happens  to  be  a  little 
grave,  has  been  heard  to  prefer  it  to  The  Spectator  j  though 
others  have  observed  that  the  reflections,  by  being  refined, 
sometimes  become  minute." 

Besides  the  works  which  I  have  mentioned,  Johnson  wrote 
a  series  of  Lives  of  the  Ports,  which  were  written  as  prefaces 
to  an  edition  of  the  works  of  the  English  poets.  These 
were  so  much  esteemed  as  criticism  that  they  took  their 
place  in  literature  as  critical  biographies,  independent  of 
the  work  for  which  they  were  written.  They  included  the 
lives  of  Milton,  Parnell,  Waller,  Dryden,  Pope,  Thomson, 
Gray,  and  many  others.  He  also  edited  Shakespeare,  with 
criticisms  on  the  plays.  Of  the  poets  of  his  own  time,  and 
of  the  school  which  he  had  been  educated  to  believe  was 
the  correct  school  in  poetry,  he  could  write  with  excellent 
judgment ;  but  Milton,  Shakespeare,  the  poets  of  the 
Elizabethan  age,  were  too  great  for  him,  and  the  present 
age  does  not  accept  his  criticism  of  them. 

His  story  of  Rasselas,  a  little  work  which  has  taken  a 
place  among  English  classics,  is  the  most  readable  of  all 
his  works.  It  is  the  account  of  an  Eastern  prince  who  is 
reared  in  a  happy  valley  and  guarded  from  all  knowledge 
of  evil,  but  finally  grows  weary  of  the  monotony  of  his  life, 
and  wanders  through  the  world  in  the  vain  search  after 
happiness.  It  was  written,  so  Johnson  said,  to  pay  the 
funeral  expenses  of  his  mother  and  some  little  debts  she 
left  at  death,  and  the  author  got  for  it  one  hundred  and 
twenty-five  pounds. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  3  1 1 

Here  is  a  short  extract  from  Rasselas,  —  the  speech  of 
the  young  prince  when  he  discovers  that,  in  spite  of  the 
felicities  of  the  "  Happy  Valley,"  he  is  not  content  with 
it,  nor  with  himself :  — 

"'What,'  said  he,  'makes  the  difference  between  man  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  animal  creation  ?  Every  beast  that  strays 
beside  me  has  the  same  corporeal  necessities  with  myself ;  he 
is  hungry,  and  crops  the  grass ;  he  is  thirsty,  and  drinks  the 
stream;  his  thirst  and  hunger  are  appeased;  he  is  satisfied,  and 
sleeps ;  he  arises  again,  and  is  hungry ;  he  is  again  fed,  and  is 
at  rest.  I  am  hungry  and  thirsty  like  him ;  but  when  thirst  and 
hunger  cease,  I  am  not  at  rest ;  I  am,  like  him,  pained  with 
want,  but  am  not,  hke  him,  satisfied  with  fulness.  The  inter- 
mediate hours  are  tedious  and  gloomy ;  I  long  again  to  be  hun- 
gry, that  I  may  again  quicken  my  attention.  The  birds  peck  the 
berries  or  the  corn,  and  fly  away  to  the  groves,  where  they  sit 
in  seeming  happiness  on  the  branches,  and  waste  their  lives  in 
tuning  an  unvaried  series  of  sounds.  I  likewise  can  call  the 
lutanist  and  the  singer ;  but  the  sounds  that  pleased  me  yester- 
day weary  me  to-day,  and  will  grow  yet  more  wearisome  to- 
morrow. I  can  discover  within  me  no  power  of  perception 
which  is  not  glutted  with  its  proper  pleasure,  yet  I  do  not  feel 
myself  delighted.  Man  surely  has  some  latent  sense  for  which 
this  place  affords  no  gratification ;  or  he  has  some  desires,  dis- 
tinct from  sense,  which  must  be  satisfied  before  he  can  be 
happy.'  .  .  . 

"  With  observations  like  these  the  prince  amused  himself  as 
he  returned,  uttering  them  with  a  plaintive  voice,  yet  with  a 
look  that  discovered  him  to  feel  some  complacence  in  his  own 
perspicuity,  and  to  receive  some  solace  of  the  miseries  of  life 
from  consciousness  of  the  delicacy  with  which  he  felt,  and  the 
eloquence  with  which  he  bewailed  them." 

The  Johnsonian  style  is  in  pompous  and  long-syllabled 
words,  overloaded  with  words  of  Latin  origin.  Johnson 
underrated  the  value  of  strong,  homely  English  ;  and  when  he 
had  expressed  himself  in  plain,  direct  words,  he  was  apt  to 
translate  himself  into  a  more  verbose  style.  Boswell  gives 
some  good  instances,  as  once  when  the  great  Doctor  had 
said  vigorously,  speaking  of  one  of  the  comedies  of  the  time 
of  Charles  II. :  "  It  had  not  wit  enough  to  keep  itself  sweet ;  " 
and  immediately  changed  it  to  "  It  had  not  enough  vitahty 


312  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

to  preserve  it  from  putrefaction."  Macaulay  finds  a  still 
better  instance  from  one  of  Johnson's  familiar  letters  when 
he  was  travelling  in  the  Hebrides.  He  writes  :  "  When  we 
were  taken  upstairs,  a  dirty  fellow  bounced  out  of  the  bed  in 
which  we  were  to  lie."  Aftenvards,  when  he  printed  the 
journal  of  these  travels,  he  gave  the  account  thus  :  "  Out 
of  one  of  the  beds  in  which  we  were  to  repose,  started  up, 
at  our  entrance,  a  man  black  as  Cyclops  from  the  forge." 
This  is  what  Macaulay  wittily  calls  "  putting  a  sentence  out 
of  English  into  Johnsonese." 

In  person  Johnson  was  awkward,  stooping,  with  sham- 
bling gait,  head  rolling  from  side  to  side,  and  face  disfig- 
ured with  marks  of  scrofula.  In  manners  he  must  have 
been  very  disagreeable,  as  he  was  often  intolerant,  over- 
bearing in  conversation,  and  regardless  of  the  feelings 
of  others.  He  was  extremely  narrow-minded  in  some  of 
his  views :  a  Tory  who  could  hardly  bear  the  name  of 
Whig ;  an  Englishman  who  hated  all  foreigners,  and  de- 
clared the  Americans,  at  the  outbreak  of  their  Revolu- 
tion, "A  party  of  convicts  who  ought  to  be  hanged;  "  a 
Churchman  who  had  no  sympathy  with  Dissenters ;  and  a 
partisan  in  most  of  his  literary  opinions.  Yet,  with  so  much 
to  be  disliked,  he  was  a  generous  man,  whose  house  was 
filled  with  poor  people  who  lived  on  his  bounty;  he  was 
very  tender  to  distress,  and  was  a  truthful,  honest,  inde- 
pendent man. 

Johnson  was  the  centre  of  the  Literary  Club  started  in 
his  day,  which  had  Goldsmith,  Edmund  Burke,  Joshua 
Reynolds  the  artist,  David  Garrick,  and  other  famous  men 
among  its  members.  This  club  was  one  of  his  haunts,  and 
another  was  the  house  of  Mr.  Thrale,  a  wealthy  gentleman 
who  befriended  him,  where  he  took  tea  once  a  week,  till  for 
a  time  he  took  up  his  abode  in  the  house  altogether.  Mrs. 
Thrale,  who  was  a  lively,  sweet-tempered  woman,  made 
much  of  him  and  poured  his  tea  cheerfully,  —  not  a  light 
office  ;  for  he  drank  a  dozen  cups  at  a  sitting,  and  once 
took  twenty-five  at  one  tea-drinking,  —  rather  to  the  disgust 
of  his  hostess. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  3  1 3 

Johnson  did  more  than  any  other  one  man  in  English 
letters  to  make  literature  a  working  profession,  —  to  take  it 
out  of  the  hands  of  patrons,  and  make  the  dealings  of 
author  and  pubHsher  a  substantial  business  relation.  He 
was  one  of  the  first  English  authors  who  lived  by  his 
work ;  and  the  honest  independence  with  which  he  in- 
spired the  profession  has  been  a  help  to  authors  ever  since 
his  time. 

His  dictionary,  too,  was  one  of  the  great  works  of  the 
century.  While  we  cannot  help  wishing  that  the  Johnso- 
nian tendency  in  language  had  been  towards  greater  sim- 
plicity, and  not  towards  the  introduction  of  so  many  Latin 
words,  still  we  must  see  that  he  did  a  great  work  for  the 
language.  In  his  time  there  was  no  standard  dictionary, 
and  Johnson,  in  arranging  and  defining  the  words  of  the 
language,  brought  it  into  order  and  gave  it  form.  He  singly 
and  alone  attempted  to  do  for  England  what  the  French 
Academy  did  for  France ;  and  although  it  is  a  question 
whether  it  is  not  better  to  have  so  important  a  work  done 
by  a  body  of  scholars  rather  than  by  one  man,  yet  nobody 
in  raising  that  question  will  doubt  the  value  and  honesty 
of  Samuel  Johnson's  labors. 


XLVII. 

On  Oliver  Goldsmith  and  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield." 

THE  name  of  Oliver  Goldsmith  is  often  heard  in  con- 
nection with  that  of  Dr.  Johnson,  and  the 

1728-1774 
two  men  were  excellent  friends,  although  John- 
son was   twenty  years   older   than    Goldsmith,   and,  in   a 
kindly  way,   disposed  to  patronize   his  young  friend. 

Goldsmith's  early  life  was  a  checkered  one.  After  leav- 
ing college  he  made  attempts  to  enter  life  at  most  of  its 
principal  gates.     He  tried   teaching,  the  law,  the  Church, 


314  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

medicine,  until,  throwing  up  all  the  professions,  he  started 
on  a  vagabond  tour  through  Europe,  from  which  he  re- 
turned to  London  poor,  alone,  unfriended,  and  with  no 
settled  calling  in  life.  He  began  his  literary  career  by 
writing  for  a  magazine,  the  drudge  of  a  publisher  who 
worked  him  hard  and  paid  him  little.  l>ut  in  this  work 
Goldsmith  first  discovered  what  he  was  capable  of  doing, 
and  this  was  the  first  step  in  the  ladder  he  climbed  so 
rapidly.  His  literary  life  lasted  about  fifteen  years  ;  and 
in  this  time  he  produced  poetry,  history,  biography,  works 
on  natural  science,  essays,  novels,  and  comedies,  with  won- 
derful versatility,  and  with  success  in  almost  every  style. 
With  work  or  without  it,  he  was  always  in  debt,  for  he  was 
reckless  and  improvident  in  his  habits,  and  never  could 
resist  the  passion  for  gambling,  which  in  early  youth  was 
nearly  his  ruin. 

His  first  success  was  in  essay  writing.  He  published 
The  Bee,  which  in  lightness  and  vivacity  was  in  strong 
contrast  to  the  dignity  and  weight  of  Johnson's  Rambler. 
If  Johnson  and  Goldsmith  had  united  their  powers,  as 
Addison  and  Steele  had  done  forty  years  earlier,  they  would 
have  made  a  paper  almost,  if  not  quite,  as  good  as  The 
Spectator. 

After  The  Bee,  Goldsmith  contributed  to  a  newspaper 
The  Letters  of  a  Chinese  Philosopher,  professedly  written 
by  a  Chinese  gentleman  travelling  in  England,  who  notes  all 
that  impresses  him  as  odd  in  government,  society,  and 
morals,  and  compares  them,  favorably  or  unfavorably,  with 
Eastern  customs.  You  can  fancy  what  an  opportunity 
Goldsmith  found  in  the  person  of  the  Chinese  gentleman 
for  good-natured  satire  against  whatever  in  politics  or 
manners  deserved   it. 

His  first  fame  was  won  by  his  poem  The  Traveller,  in 
which  he  put  the  impressions  and  memories  of  his  tour  in 
Europe  into  verse.  This  brought  him  reputation  among 
literary  men;  and  the  praise  with  which  it  was  received  en- 
couraged the  publishers  to  bring  out  The  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field, which  had  been  some  time  in  their  hands.    This  story 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURK.  3 1 5 

is,  of  all  his  works,  the  one  which  brings  him  closest  to  his 
readers  of  the  present.  I  have  never  seen  any  one,  young 
or  old,  who  did  not  read  it  with  delight,  and  I  believe  it 
will  continue  to  be  read  as  long  as  the  eighteenth  century 
is  remembered  in  literature.  Dr.  Johnson  gives  this  ac- 
count of  how  the  Vicar  came  to  be  published  : — 

"  I  received  one  morning  a  message  from  poor  Goldsmith 
that  he  was  in  great  distress,  and  as  it  was  not  in  his  power  to 
come  to  me,  begging  that  I  would  come  to  him  as  soon  as 
possible.  I  sent  him  a  guinea,  and  promised  to  come  to  him 
directly;  I  accordingly  went  as  soon  as  I  was  dressed,  and 
found  that  his  landlady  had  arrested  him  for  his  rent,  at  which 
he  was  in  a  violent  passion.  I  perceived  that  he  had  already 
changed  my  guinea,  and  had  got  a  botde  of  Madeira  and  a  glass 
before  him ;  I  put  the  cork  into  the  bottle,  desired  he  would  be 
calm,  and  began  to  talk  to  him  of  the  means  by  which  he  might 
be  extricated.  He  then  told  me  that  he  had  a  novel  ready  for 
the  press,  which  he  produced  to  me.  I  looked  into  it,  and  saw 
its  merit ;  told  the  landlady  I  would  soon  return ;  and  having 
gone  to  a  bookseller,  sold  it  for  sixty  pounds.  I  brought  Gold- 
smith the  money,  and  he  discharged  his  rent,  not  without  rating 
his  landlady  in  a  high  tone  for  having  used  him  so  ill." 

Goldsmith's  Vicar  of  Wakefield  appeared  after  Richard- 
son, Fielding,  and  Smollett  had  gained  their  fame  as  novel- 
ists, and  was  the  purest  and  most  wholesome  of  English 
stories  yet  written.  The  scenes  of  Fielding  and  Smollett 
are  too  frequently  vicious,  or  are  carried  on  in  the  haunts 
of  vice. 

Goldsmith  took  his  reader  into  rural  English  life,  among 
characters  who  at  once  get  a  hold  on  our  hearts  which 
they  never  lose.  We  learn  to  love  them  all,  from  artless 
Dr.  Primrose  to  the  pedantic,  yet  easily  humbugged,  Moses. 
We  enjoy  all  the  amusements  of  the  family  when  they 
are  living  in  competency  —  their  tea-drinkings,  out-door 
dances,  their  social  commerce  with  neighbors  —  as  if  we 
were  taking  part  in  them  ;  and  their  revulsion  from  a  comfort- 
able estate  to  poverty  we  feel  as  if  it  were  our  own.  How 
delightfully  Mr.  Burchell,  the  lord  in  disguise,  comes  into 
the  story ;  we  guess,  long  before  the  artless  Primroses  do. 


3l6  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

that  he  is  to  be  their  benefactor.  And  when  the  bad  young 
squire  comes  upon  the  scene,  I  tremble  for  Ohvia's  peace 
of  mind  even  when  I  read  the  novel  for  the  twentieth 
time. 

How  wise  good  Dr.  Primrose  is  in  all  his  little  discourses, 
although  we  see  that  he  is,  in  all  minor  matters,  led  by  his 
wife  and  daughters  very  tenderly  by  the  nose  !  Yet  he 
sometimes  gets  the  better  of  them.     One  day,  he  says,  — 

"  My  wife  went  to  make  the  venison  pasty,  Moses  sat  read- 
ing, while  I  taught  the  little  ones.  My  daughters  seemed 
equally  busy  with  the  rest,  and  I  observed  them  for  a  good 
while  cooking  something  over  the  fire.  I  at  first  supposed  they 
were  assisting  their  mother ;  but  little  Dick  informed  me,  in  a 
whisper,  that  they  were  making;  a  wash  for  the  face.  Washes 
of  all  kinds  I  had  a  natural  antipathy  to,  for  I  knew  that  instead 
of  mending  the  complexion  they  .spoiled  it.  I  therefore  ap- 
proached my  chair  by  slow  degrees  to  the  fire,  and  grasping  the 
poker,  as  if  it  wanted  mending,  seemingly  by  accident  over- 
turned the  whole  composition,  and  it  was  too  late  to  begin 
another." 

One  of  the  most  delicious  bits  of  humor  in  the  book  is 
the  good  old  Doctor's  account  of  the  way  in  which  the 
family  had  their  portraits  painted  :  — 

"  My  wife  and  daughters  happening  to  return  a  visit  at  neigh- 
bor Flamborough's,  found  that  family  had  lately  got  their  pic- 
tures drawn  by  a  limner  who  travelled  the  country  and  took 
likenesses  iox fifteen  shillings  a  head.  As  this  family  and  ours 
had  long  a  sort  of  rivalry  in  point  of  taste,  our  spirit  took  the 
alarm  at  this  stolen  march  upon  us,  and  notwithstanding  all  I 
could  say  (and  I  said  much),  it  was  resolved  that  we  should 
have  our  pictures  done  too.  Having,  therefore,  engaged  the 
limner  (for  what  could  I  do?),  our  next  deliberation  was  to 
show  the  superiority  of  our  taste  in  the  attitudes.  As  for  our 
neighbor's  family,  there  were  seven  of  them,  and  they  were  drawn 
with  seven  oranges,  — a  thing  quite  out  of  taste,  no  variety  in 
life,  no  composition  in  the  world.  We  desired  to  have  some- 
thing in  a  brighter  st3-le  ;  and  after  many  debates,  at  length 
came  to  the  unanimous  resolution  of  being  drawn  together  in 
one  large  historical  family  piece.  This  would  be  cheaper,  since 
one  frame  would  serve  for  all,  and  it  would  be  infinitely  more  gen- 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  3 1 7 

teel ;  for  all  families  of  any  taste  were  now  drawn  in  the  same 
manner.  As  we  did  not  immediately  recollect  an  historical  sub- 
ject to  hit  us,  we  were  contented  each  with  being  drawn  as  inde- 
pendent historical  figures.  My  wife  desired  to  be  drawn  as 
Venus,  and  the  painter  was  requested  not  to  be  too  frugal  of  his 
diamonds  in  her  stomacher  and  hair.  Her  two  little  ones  were 
to  be  as  Cupids  by  her  side;  while  I,  in  my  gown  and  band,  was 
to  present  her  with  my  books  on  the  Whistonian  controversy. 
Olivia  would  be  drawn  as  an  Amazon,  sitting  on  a  bank  of 
flowers,  dressed  in  a  green  Joseph  richly  laced  with  gold,  and  a 
whip  in  her  hand;  Sophia  was  to  be  a  shepherdess,  with  as 
many  sheep  as  the  painter  could  put  in  for  nothing ;  and  Moses 
was  to  be  dressed  out  with  a  hat  and  white  feather. 
"...  The  painter  v/as  therefore  set  to  work  ;  and  as  he  wrought 
with  assiduity  and  expedition,  in  less  than  four  days  the  whole 
was  completed.  The  piece  was  large,  and  it  must  be  owned  he 
did  not  spare  his  colors,  for  which  my  wife  gave  him  great  en- 
comiums. We  were  all  perfectly  satisfied  with  his  performance; 
but  an  unfortunate  circumstance,  which  had  not  occurred  till  the 
picture  was  finished,  now  struck  us  with  dismay.  It  was  so 
very  large  that  we  had  no  place  in  the  house  to  fix  it !  .  .  .  This 
picture,  therefore,  instead  of  gratifying  our  vanity,  as  we  hoped 
it  would,  leaned  in  the  most  mortifying  manner  against  the 
kitchen  wall,  where  the  canvas  was  stretched  and  painted, 
much  too  large  to  be  got  through  any  of  the  doors,  and  the  jest 
of  all  our  neighbors." 

Goldsmith's  poem,  The  Deserted  Village,  breathes  some- 
thing of  the  same  spirit  as  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  It 
shows  the  same  sympathy  with  the  simple  life  of  rural  Eng- 
land ;  and  the  character  of  the  village  preacher,  who  re- 
minds us  of  Dr.  Primrose,  is  said  to  be  a  genuine  portrait  of 
the  poet's  father  : — 

"  Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild, 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year ; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change  his  place ; 
Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour  ; 


3l8  FAMILIAR   TALKS 

Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize, 

More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train  ; 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain. 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast ; 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  niglit  away, 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done. 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were  won 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe  ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

"Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  Virtue's  side ; 
But,  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for  all  ; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies. 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

"Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid. 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismayed. 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

"At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace. 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place  ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran; 
E'en  children  followed  with  endearing  wile, 
And  plucked  his  gown  to  share  the  pood  man's  smile. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed  ; 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed. 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given. 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form. 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread. 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head." 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  3  1 9 

Probably  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  and  The  Deserted 
Village  will  outlive  all  else  that  Goldsmith  ever  wrote, 
but  neither  of  these  won  him  such  success  during  his  life 
as  his  comedies,  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  and  The  Good- 
Natured  Man.  Best  of  these  is  She  Stoops  to  Conquer, 
which  deserved  its  success.  It  is  a  play  whose  situations 
are  mirthful  and  innocent,  and  whose  characters  are  laugh- 
able, without  being  coarse.  The  drama  had  made  great  im- 
provement in  purity  during  the  century  which  began  with 
Congreve  and  Farquhar ;  and  the  work  of  Gold-  1751  loie 
smith  in  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  and  The  Good- 
Natured  Man,  followed  by  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan's 
plays.  The  Rivals  and  The  School  for  Scandal,  did  more 
to  elevate  the  stage  than  many  sermons  had  yet  been  able 
to  do.  And  we  may  count  it  as  one  of  the  chief  merits  of 
a  writer  so  versatile  as  Goldsmith  that  his  wit  was  pure  and 
wholesome,  his  pathos  true  and  not  morbid,  and  that  few 
men  have  written  so  little  that  in  the  interests  of  morality 
we  could  wish  to  blot. 


XLVIII. 

On  the  First  Woman  Novelist. 

IN  the  year  1778  the  whole  reading  world  was  agitated 
by  the  appearance  of  an  anonymous  novel  called  Eve- 
li?ia.  Everybody  read  it  with  delight,  and  it  was  pro- 
nounced a  wonderful  picture  of  the  times.  All  London 
was  occupied  in  guessing  what  new  author  had  burst  into 
fame,  and  everybody  was  praising  him,  and  wondering 
about  him,  when  it  was  whispered  from  one  to  another 
that  a  young  lady,  Miss  Fanny  Burney,  had 
written  this  book,  and  Miss  Burney  at  once  be- 
came the  heroine  of  the  hour.  Dr.  Johnson's  friend  Mrs. 
Thrale  sent  and  invited  her  to  tea,  where  the  great  Doctor 
sat   beside    her   and   paid    her    extravagant    compliments. 


320  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Edmund  Burke,  the  statesman,  sat  up  all  night  to  read  her 
book ;  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  the  painter,  declared  he  would 
give  fifty  pounds  to  know  the  author ;  and  praises  were 
showered  upon  her  by  readers  great  and  little.  We,  who 
read  every  year  dozens  of  novels  far  cleverer  than  Evelina, 
may  find  it  difficult  to  understand  this///;v;-.  But  we  must 
remember  that  no  English  woman  had  ever  before  written  a 
novel,  and  that  Evelina  was  more  natural  in  style  than  were 
Richardson's  novels,  and  much  more  delicate  and  refined 
than  Fielding's ;  and  then  we  shall  not  be  surprised  at  the 
wonder  as  well  as  the  delight  with  which  it  was  welcomed. 
The  young  ladies  who  had  been  reading  Tom  Jones  or  the 
more  delicate  pages  of  Clarissa  Harlowe  could  read  Eve- 
lina without  a  blush  ;  and  the  artlessness  and  innocence  of 
the  heroine  would  win  the  heart  of  the  severest  critic. 

Evelina,  a  girl  of  sixteen,  bred  in  a  country  parsonage,  is 
taken  to  London  by  some  friends,  and  all  at  once  ushered 
into  the  gay  life  of  that  city  as  it  was  a  century  ago.  Soon 
after  her  arrival  in  London,  Evelina  goes  with  her  friends, 
Mrs.  Mir\'an  and  her  daughter  Maria,  to  a  ball,  of  which 
she  writes  next  day  the  following  account  to  her  guardian 
in  the  country  :  — 

"  We  came  home  from  the  ridotto  so  late,  or  rather  so  early, 
that  it  was  not  possible  for  me  to  write.  Indeed,  we  did  not^^ 
—  you  will  be  frightened  to  hear  it  —  till  past  eleven  o'clock; 
but  nobody  does.  A  terrible  reverse  of  the  order  of  nature  ! 
We  sleep  with  the  sun,  and  wake  with  the  moon. 

"  The  room  was  very  magnificent,  the  lights  and  decorations 
were  brilliant,  and  the  company  gay  and  splendid.  But  I 
should  have  told  you  that  I  made  many  objections  to  being  of 
the  party,  according  to  the  resolution  I  had  formed.  However, 
Maria  laughed  me  out  of  my  scruples,  and  so  once  again  I  went 
to  an  assembly.  .  .  . 

"  Miss  Mirvan  was  soon  engaged  ;  and  presently  after,  a  very 
fashionable,  gay-looking  man,  who  seemed  about  thirty  years  of 
age,  addressed  himself  to  me,  and  begged  to  have  the  honor 
of  dancing  with  me.  Now,  Maria's  partner  was  a  gentleman 
of  .Mrs.  Mirvan's  acquaintance ;  for  she  had  told  us  it  was  highly 
improper  for  young  women  to  dance  with  strangers  at  any  pub- 
lic assembly.     Indeed,  it  was  by  no  means  my  wish  so  to  do; 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  32 1 

yet  I  did  not  like  to  confine  myself  from  dancing  at  all ;  neither 
did  I  dare  refuse  this  gentleman,  and  then,  if  any  acquaintance 
should  offer,  accept  him  ;  and  so,  all  these  reasons,  combining, 
induced  me  to  tell  him  — yet  I  blush  to  write  it  to  you  !  — that 
I  was  already  engaged;  by  which  I  meant  to  keep  myself  at 
liberty  to  dance  or  not,  as  matters  should  fall  out. 

"  I  suppose  my  consciousness  betrayed  ray  artifice,  for  he 
looked  at  me  as  if  incredulous ;  and,  instead  of  being  satisfied 
with  my  answer,  and  leaving  me,  according  to  my  expectation, 
he  walked  at  my  side,  and,  with  the  greatest  ease  imaginable, 
began  a  conversation  in  the  free  style  which  only  belongs  to 
old  and  intimate  acquaintance.  But,  what  was  most  provoking, 
he  asked  me  a  thousand  questions  concerning  tJie  partner  to 
whom  I  was  engaged.  And  at  last  he  said,  '  Is  it  really  pos- 
sible that  a  man  whom  you  have  honored  with  your  acceptance 
can  fail  to  be  at  hand  to  profit  from  your  goodness  ? ' 

"  I  felt  extremely  foolish,  and  begged  Mrs.  Mirvanto  lead  me 
to  a  seat  ;  which  she  very  obligingly  did.  The  captain  (her 
husband)  sat  next  her ;  and,  to  my  great  surprise,  this  gen- 
tleman thought  proper  to  follow  and  seat  himself  next  to  me. 

'"What  an  insensible!'  continued  he;  'why,  madam,  you 
are  missing  the  most  delightful  dance  in  the  world  !  The  man 
must  be  either  mad  or  a  fool.  Which  do  you  incline  to  think 
him  yourself  ? ' 

"  'Neither,  sir,'  answered  I,  in  some  confusion. 

"  He  begged  my  pardon  for  the  freedom  of  his  supposition, 
saying,  '  I  really  was  off  my  guard,  from  astonishment  that  any 
man  can  be  so  much  and  so  unaccountably  his  own  enemy. 
But  where,  madam,  can  he  possibly  be  ?  Has  he  left  the 
room?  or  has  not  he  been  in   it?" 

"  '  Indeed,  sir,'  said  I,  peevishly,  '  I  know  nothing  of  him.' 

"  '  I  don't  wonder  that  you  are  disconcerted,  madam  ;  it  is 
really  very  provoking.  The  best  part  of  the  evening  will  be 
absolutely  lost.  He  deserves  not  that  you  should  wait  for 
him.' 

"  '  I  do  not,  sir,'  said  I,  '  and  I  beg  you  not  to  — ' 

"'Mortifying  indeed,  madam,'  interrupted  he;  *a  lady  to 
wait  for  a  gentleman  !  Oh,  fie,  careless  fellow !  What  can 
detain  him  ?     Will  you  give  me  leave  to  seek  him  ? ' 

"  '  If  you  please,  sir,'  answered  I,  quite  terrified  lest  Mrs. 
Mirvan  should  attend  to  him;  for  she  looked  very  much  sur- 
prised at  seeing  me  enter  into  conversation  with  a  stranger. 

"  '  With  all  my  heart,'  cried  he  ;  '  pray,  what  coat  has  he  on  .•" 

"  '  Indeed,  I  never  looked  at  it.' 

21 


322  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

"  '  Out  upon  him  ! '  cried  he  ;  '  what !  did  he  address  you  in  a 
coat  not  wortli  looking  at  ?     What  a  shabby  wretch !  ' 

"  How  ridiculous  !  I  really  could  not  help  laughing,  —  which, 
I  fear,  encouraged  him,  for  he  went  on, — 

"  '  Charming  creature  !  and  can  you  really  bear  ill-usage  with 
so  much  sweetness  ?  Can  you,  like  Patience  on  a  ?nonument, 
smile  in  the  midst  of  disappointment  ?  For  my  part,  though 
I  am  not  the  offended  person,  my  indignation  is  so  great  that 
I  long  to  kick  the  fellow  round  the  room! — unless,  indeed' 
(hesitating,  and  looking  earnestly  at  me), '  unless,  indeed,  it  is  a 
partner  of  your  own  creating.'' 

"  I  was  dreadfully  abashed,  and  could  not  make  any  answer. 

"  '  But  no !  '  cried  he  again,  and  with  warmth,  '  it  cannot  be 
that  you  are  so  cruel !  Softness  itself  is  painted  in  your  eyes. 
You  could  not,  surely,  have  the  barbarity  so  wantonly  to  trifle 
with  my  misery.' 

"  I  turned  away  from  this  nonsense  with  real  disgust.  Mrs. 
Mirvan  saw  my  confusion,  but  was  perplexed  what  to  think  of 
it,  and  I  could  not  explain  to  her  the  cause,  lest  the  captain 
should  hear  me.  I  therefore  proposed  to  walk ;  she  consented, 
and  we  all  rose.  But  —  would  you  believe  it?  —  this  man  had 
the  assurance  to  rise  too,  and  walk  close  by  my  side,  as  if  of 
my  party ! 

" '  Now,'  cried  he,  '  I  hope  we  shall  see  this  ingrate.  Is  that 
he,'  pointing  to  an  old  man  who  was  lame,  'or  that?'  And 
in  this  manner  he  asked  me  of  whoever  was  old  or  ugly  in  the 
room.  I  made  no  sort  of  answer ;  and  when  he  found  that  I 
was  resolutely  silent,  and  walked  on  as  much  as  I  could  without 
observing  him,  he  suddenly  stamped  his  foot,  and  cried  out  in  a 
passion,  '  Fool !  Idiot !  Booby ! ' 

"  I  turned  hastily  toward  him.  '  Oh,  madam,'  continued  he, 
'forgive  my  vehemence;  but  I  am  distracted  to  think  there 
should  exist  a  wretch  who  can  slight  a  blessing  for  which  I 
would  forfeit  my  life  !  Oh  that  I  could  but  meet  him !  I  would 
soon —  But  I  grow  angry;  pardon  me,  madam  :  my  passions 
are  violent,  and  your  injuries  affect  me ! ' 

"  I  began  to  apprehend  he  was  a  madman,  and  stared  at  him 
with  the  utmost  astonishment.  '  I  see  you  are  moved,  madam,' 
said  he;  'generous  creature!  —  but  don't  be  alarmed;  I  am 
cool  again,  I  am  indeed,  —  upon  my  soul,  I  am ;  I  entreat  you, 
most  lovely  of  mortals !  I  entreat  you  Co  be  easy.' 

"'Indeed,  sir,'  said  I,  very  seriously,  'I  must  insist  upon 
your  leaving  me ;  you  are  quite  a  stranger  to  me,  and  I  am  both 
unused  and  averse  to  your  language  and  your  manners.' 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  323 

"  This  seemed  to  have  some  effect  on  him.  He  made  me  a 
low  bow,  begged  my  pardon,  and  vowed  he  would  not  for  the 
world  offend  me. 

"  'Then,  sir,  you  must  leave  me,'  cried  I. 

" '  I  am  gone,  madam,  I  am  gone  ! '  with  a  most  tragical  air, 
and  he  marched  away  at  a  quick  pace  out  of  sight  in  a  moment ; 
but  before  I  had  time  to  congratulate  myself,  he  was  again  at 
my  elbow. 

" '  And  could  you  really  let  me  go,  and  not  be  sorry  ?  Can 
you  see  me  suffer  torments  inexpressible,  and  yet  retain  all 
your  favor  for  that  miscreant  who  flies  you?  Ungrateful 
puppy!     I  could  bastinado  him!' 

"  '  For  Heaven's  sake,  my  dear,'  cried  Mrs.  Mirvan,  'who  is 
he  talking  of? ' 

'■•Indeed,  I  do  not  know,  madam,' said  I;  'but  I  wish  he 
would  leave  me.' 

"'What's  all  that  there? '  cried  the  captain. 

"  The  man  made  a  low  bow,  and  said,  '  Only,  sir,  a  slight 
objection  which  this  young  lady  makes  to  dancing  with  me, 
and  which  I  am  endeavoring  to  obviate.  I  shall  think  myself 
greatly  honored  if  you  will  intercede  for  me.' 

"'That  lady,  sir,'  said  the  captain,  coldly,  'is  her  own  mis- 
tress.'    And  he  walked  sullenly  on. 

"'You,  madam,'  said  the  man,  who  looked  delighted,  to  Mrs. 
Mirvan,  '  you,  I  hope,  will  have  the  goodness  to  speak  for  me.' 

" '  Sir,'  answered  she,  gravely,  '  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of 
being  acquainted  with  you.' 

"'I  hope  when  you  have,  ma'am,'  cried  he,  undaunted,  '}-ou 
will  honor  me  with  your  approbation  ;  but  while  I  am  yet  un- 
known to  you,  it  would  be  truly  generous  in  you  to  countenance 
me;  and  I  flatter  myself,  madam,  that  you  will  not  have  cause 
to  repent  it.' 

"Mrs.  Mirvan,  with  an  embarrassed  air,  replied,  '  I  do  not  at 
all  mean,  sir,  to  doubt  your  being  a  gentleman,  but  — ' 

" '  But  what,  madam  ?     That  doubt  removed,  why  a  hit?  ' 

"'Well,  sir,'  said  Mrs.  Mirvan,  with  a  good-humored  smile, 
'I  will  even  treat  you  with  your  ov/n  plainness,  and  try  what 
effect  that  will  have  on  you ;  I  must  therefore  tell  you,  once  for 
all—' 

"  '  Oh,  pardon  me,  madam  !  '  interrupted  he,  eagerlv,  '  you 
must  not  proceed  with  those  words  oice  for  all ;  no,  if  /  have 
been  too  plain,  and,  though  a  man,  deserve  a  rebuke,  re- 
member, dear  ladies,  that  if  you  copy,  you  ought,  in  justice,  to 
excuse  me.' 


324  FAMILIAR   TALKS 

"  We  both  stared  at  the  man's  strange  behavior. 

"'Be  nobler  than  your  sex,'  continued  he,  turning  to  me ; 
'  honor  me  with  one  dance,  and  give  up  the  ingrate  who  has 
merited  so  ill  your  patience.' 

"  Mrs.  Mirvan  looked  with  astonishment  at  us  both. 

" '  Whom  does  he  speak  of,  my  dear  ?  You  never  men- 
tioned — ' 

'"Oh,  madam,'  exclaimed  he,  'he  was  not  worth  mentioningi 
—  it  is  pity  he  was  ever  thought  of  ;  but  let  us  forget  his  exist- 
ence. One  dance  is  all  I  solicit.  Permit  me,  madam,  the 
honor  of  this  young  lady's  hand ;  it  will  be  a  favor  I  shall  ever 
most  gratefully  acknowledge.' 

"  '  Sir,'  answered  she,  'favors  and  strangers  have  with  me  no 
connection.' 

"  '  If  you  have  hitherto,'  said  he,  '  confined  your  benevolence 
to  )-our  intimate  friends,  suffer  me  to  be  the  first  for  whom  your 
charity  is  enlarged.' 

"  '  Well,  sir,  I  know  not  what  to  say  to  you,  but  — ' 

"  He  stopped  her  but  with  so  many  urgent  entreaties  that  she 
at  last  told  me  I  must  either  go  down  one  dance  or  avoid  his 
importunities  by  returning  home.  I  hesitated  which  alternative 
to  choose  ;  but  this  impetuous  man  at  length  prevailed,  and  I 
was  obliged  to  consent  to  dance  with  him. 

"  And  thus  was  my  deviation  from  truth  punished,  and  thus 
did  this  man's  determined  boldness  conquer." 

Into  such  scrapes  as  these  do  Evelina's  inexperience  and 
thoughtlessness  constantly  lead  her ;  and  the  case  is  made 
still  worse  by  the  fact  that  her  vulgar  grandmamma,  who 
returns  from  a  long  residence  in  France,  takes  her  from  her 
friends  and  attempts  to  chaperone  her.  The  whole  tone  of 
the  society  is  so  vulgar,  the  manners  of  the  persons  who 
pass  for  well-bred  are  so  bad,  that  one  is  almost  inclined  to 
doubt  what  was  said  of  the  novel,  —  that  it  was  a  perfect 
picture  of  fashionable  life  in  its  time. 

Miss  Burney  wrote  several  other  novels  after  Evelina, 
one  of  which,  Cecilia,  had  almost  as  great  a  success  even 
as  Evelina.  Her  fame  led  to  her  appointment  as  one  of 
the  ladies-in-waiting  to  the  queen  of  George  III.,  —  a  posi- 
tion which  was  much  more  respectable  than  it  was  pleasant. 
When  about  forty  she  married  a  French  officer,  M.  d'Ar- 
blay,  and  after  that,  published  an  account  of  her  own  life, 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  325 

The  Memoirs  of  Mme.  d  'Arblay,  which  is  one  of  the  most 
sincere  and  entertaining  books  in  Uterature.  She  begins 
with  the.  account  of  her  writing  Evelina  ;  tells  all  the  tri- 
umphs of  her  authorship ;  gives  striking  and  Ufe-like  pic- 
tures of  Dr.  Johnson  and  the  other  great  men  and  women 
she  met ;  and  finally  takes  us  into  the  court  of  George 
III.,  and  shows  us  her  very  uncomfortable  life  there 
among  the  royal  personages.  These  memoirs  are  most 
delightful  reading,  and  give  one  a  very  vivid  idea  of  the 
society  of  which  Miss  Burney  was  a  part. 

By  the  time  Evelina  appeared,  the  novel  had  begun  to 
be  felt  as  one  of  the  strongest  forces  in  literature.  Miss 
Burney  led  a  crowd  of  woman-writers  who  appeared  rapidly 
during  the  last  years  of  the  last  century.  For  the  first  time 
in  the  history  of  English  literature  a  field  was  opened  where 
woman  could  work  in  rivalry  with  man.  In  the  novel  she 
could  equal,  and  sometimes  surpass  him ;  and  from  that 
time  to  this,  the  woman-writer  of  novels  has  held  her  place 
among  the  best. 

Mrs.  Anne  Radcliffe  was  famous  as  a  writer  of  high- 
wrought  fictions.  Chief  among  these  are  the 
Romance  of  the  Forest  and  The  Mysteries  of 
Udolpho.  White-robed  figures  walking  by  moonlight,  black- 
robed  men,  ruined  castles,  midnight  groans,  —  all  these 
were  part  of  the  machinery  of  her  stories.  They  were  no 
doubt  very  thrilling  and  sensational  in  their  day,  but  beside 
more  modern  successes  in  that  line  they  appear  quite  tame 
and  harmless. 

Mrs.  Amelia  Opie  was  a  writer  of  different   character 
from  Mrs.  Radcliffe.     Her  stories,  Father  and 
Daughter,   Tales  of  the  Heart,  Temper,  etc.,  as 
their  titles    show,   were  tales    of   real  life,  written  with  a 
rather  too  obvious  moral,  and  with  hardly  vigor  enough  to 
keep  them  alive. 

Miss  Maria  Edgeworth,  who  was  a  native  of  Ireland,  laid 
most  of  the  scenes  of  her  books  in  that  country. 
Her  stories  for  children  in  The  Parent's  Assist- 
ant,   of  Lazy  Lawrence,    Simple  Susan,   and    her   tale  of 


326  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

Rosajtiinid,  Frank,  Harry  and  Lucy,  pleased  the  children 
of  a  generation  ago,  but  are  now  very  little  read. 

Then  came  the  Porter  sisters,  Jane  and  Anna  Maria, 
the  first  of  whom  wrote  those  stately  old-fashioned  novels 
lliaddcits  of  Warsazv  and  The  Scottish  Chiefs,  over  which 
our  grandmothers  hung  enraptured.  And  at  the  beginning  of 
our  century  appeared  Jane  Austen,  the  author  of 
Pride  and  Prejudice,  Mansfield  Park,  Sense  and 
Sensibility,  who  wrote  with  a  naturalness  and  good  sense 
which  has  made  her  a  favorite  with  readers  even  to  our 
time.  These,  with  many  others,  kept  the  circulating  libra- 
ries of  the  time  supplied  with  new  books,  till  early  in  this 
century  the  fame  of  all  others  was  almost  lost  in  the 
great  splendor  of  Walter  Scott's  success  as  the  novelist  of 
history. 


XLIX. 

The  Work  of  Thomas  Percy  and  James  Macpherson, 
AND  THE  Sad  Story  of  Thomas  Chatterton,  the 
Boy- Poet. 

IN  1765,  about  the  time  that  Goldsmith  published  the 
artless  story  of  dear  old  Dr.  Primrose,  Bishop  Percy, 
who  was  a  friend  of  both  Goldsmith  and  Dr.  Johnson, 
published  a  collection  of  old  English  ballads,  which  he 
called  Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry.  I  can  f.incy 
that  the  readers  of  the  time  were  growing  tired  of  the 
exact  and  didactic  sort  of  verses  which  had  been  fashion- 
able for  so  many  years,  and  welcomed  a  draught  from  the 
pure  springs  of  English  poetry  which  lay  hidden  in  those 
old  songs. 

Thomas  Percy,  a  scholar  of  elegant  tastes,  was  already 
known  as  a  writer  of  some  merit,  when  the  design  of  publish- 
ing a  collection  of  English  ballad  poetry  occurred 
to  him.     He  had  in  his  library  an  old  manuscript 
containing  songs  and  ballads,  some  of  them  of  earlier  date 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  327 

than  Chaucer,  while  others  were  written  as  late  as  the  seven- 
teenth century.  This  manuscript  had  been  marred  by  time 
and  mould  and  mutilation  until  in  some  places  words  or 
whole  lines  were  illegible  ;  in  others,  half  a  leaf  was  wanting. 
To  many  men  it  would  have  seemed  a  hopeless  task  to  de- 
cipher the  tattered  and  time-stained  pages ;  but  Dr.  Percy 
had  just  the  taste  and  skill  for  the  work  he  undertook.  He 
seems  to  have  had  a  knack  at  renovation  which  certain 
menders  of  old  pictures  have  shown,  and  to  have  been  able 
to  supply  missing  words  and  lines,  and  to  patch  up  an  old 
ballad  out  of  detached  fragments  with  such  skill  that  one 
could  not  detect  his  handiwork  from  the  original.  Adding 
to  his  own  manuscript  old  ballads  from  many  other  sources, 
he  at  last  produced  the  three  volumes  of  Reliques  of  An- 
cient English  Poetry,  for  which  every  lover  of  ballads  has 
been  grateful  to  him  from  that  time  to  this.  Here  are  to  be 
found  the  old  rhymes  of  Chevy  Chase,  the  Battle  of  Otter- 
bourne,  Sir  Patrick  Spence,  the  Babes  in  the  Wood,  some 
of  the  ballads  of  Robin  Hood,  and  many  more  dear  old 
rhymes,  which  in  our  childhood  we  learned  by  heart.  The 
interest  which  this  work  excited  was  as  great  as  it  deserved 
to  be,  and  Percy  won  by  it  a  place  in  literature  which  none 
of  his  other  works  could  have  gained  for  him. 

While  Bishop  Percy  was  making  his  collection  of  antique 
English  poetry,  James  Macpherson  was  working  in  a  similar 
field.  A  native  of  Scotland,  he  had  become  greatly  inter- 
ested in  the  Gaelic  speech  of  his  forefathers.  He  claimed 
that  he  had  discovered  some  remains  in  manuscript  of  the 
ancient  Gaelic  bard  Ossian,  and  gave  them  to  the  world  in 
a   poetical-prose    translation    of   his   own.     This 

1762 

poetry,  which  was  wild  and  picturesque,  like  the 
early  bardic  poetry,  was  at  once  read  and  admired.    A  very 
few  lines  will  give  an  idea  of  the  style  of  Ossian.     I  select 
these  from  the  longest  poem,  Fingal,  which  celebrates  the 
deeds  of  the  famous  Gaelic  warrior,  Fingal :  — 

"  Fingal,  like  a  beam  from  heaven,  shone  in  the  midst  of  his 
people.  His  heroes  gather  round  him.  He  sends  forth  the 
voice  of  his  power.     '  Raise  my  standards  on  high ;  spread  them 


328  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

on  Lena's  wind  like  the  flames  of  an  hundred  hills.  Let  them 
sound  on  the  winds  of  Erin  and  remind  us  of  the  fight.  Ye 
sons  of  the  roaring  streams  that  pour  from  a  thousand  hills, 
hear  ye  the  king  of  Morven;  attend  to  the  words  of  his  power. 
Gaul,  strongest  arm  of  death ;  Oscar  of  the  future  fights  ;  Con- 
nal,  son  of  the  blue  shields  of  Sora;  Dermid  of  the  dark-brown 
hair ;  Ossian,  king  of  many  songs,  —  be  near  your  father's  arm.' 
We  reared  the  sunbeam  of  battle,  the  standard  of  the  king. 
Each  hero  exulted  with  joy  as  waving  it  flew  in  the  wind.  It 
was  studded  with  gold  above  as  the  blue  wide  shell  of  the 
mighty  sky.  Each  hero  had  his  standard  too,  and  each  his 
gloomy  men.  .  .  .  Now,  like  an  hundred  different  winds  that 
pour  through  many  vales,  divided,  dark  the  sons  of  Selma 
advanced.  Cromla  echoed  around.  How  can  I  relate  the 
deaths  when  we  closed  in  the  st-rife  of  arms  ?  O  daughter  of 
Toscar,  bloody  were  our  hands  !  The  gloomy  ranks  of  Lochlin 
fell  like  the  banks  of  the  roaring  Cona  !  Our  arms  were  victo- 
rious on  Lena.  Each  chief  fulfilled  his  promise.  .  .  .  Thou 
hast  seen  the  sun  retire  red  and  slow  behind  his  cloud,  night 
gathering  round  on  the  mountain,  while  the  unfrequent  blast 
roars  in  the  narrow  vale.  At  length  the  rain  beats  hard  ;  thunder 
roars  in  peals ;  lightning  glances  on  the  rocks;  spirits  ride  on 
beams  of  fire.  The  strength  of  the  mountain  streams  comes 
roaring  down  the  hills.  Such  w-as  the  noise  of  battle,  maid  of 
the  arms  of  snow  !  Why,  daughter  of  Toscar,  why  that  tear  ? 
The  maids  of  Lochlin  have  cause  to  weep.  The  people  of  their 
country  wail.  Bloody  are  the  blue  swords  of  the  race  of  my 
heroes." 

The  work  of  both  Percy  and  Macpherson  caused  hot  dis- 
cussion in  literary  circles.  Bishop  Percy's  collection  had 
aroused  a  dispute  among  other  scholars  of  ancient  poetry 
concerning  his  right  to  amend  the  old  ballads  by  adding  or 
supplying  his  own  words  or  lines  where  the  originals  were 
missing.  Although  Percy  had  done  his  work  in  the  best  of 
faith  and  in  all  honesty,  telling  just  what  part  of  the  work 
was  his  o\vn,  yet  the  criticism  upon  him  for  these  interpola- 
tions into  the  old  text  was  so  sharp  that  the  poor  bishop 
must  have  felt  as  if  he  had  unexpectedly  put  his  head  into 
a  hive  of  stinging-bees. 

In  the  case  of  Macpherson  and  his  Ossianic  poems,  the 
dispute  ran  higher.     One  party  believed  that  these  poems 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  329 

were  really  translations  from  the  Gaelic  ;  another  party  de- 
clared that  Macpherson  had  composed  them  himself;  and 
the  two  factions  belabored  each  other  with  arguments  and 
abuse.  During  most  of  the  discussion,  Macpherson  main- 
tained a  silence  which  seems  rather  obstinate ;  and  there 
never  was  any  absolute  settlement  of  the  inquiry  as  to  the 
originality  of  the  poems.  It  seems  probable,  however,  that 
although  they  were,  in  the  main,  written  by  Macpherson, 
they  were  founded  on  fragments  of  old  songs  of  the  Celtic 
bards  which  had  been  preserved  by  tradition  in  the  High- 
lands of  Scotland. 

But  the  dispute  about  the  work  of  Percy  and  Macpher- 
son was  slight  compared  with  that  which  arose  concerning 
the  writings  of  Thomas  Chatterton,  the   boy-poet,   one  of 
the  greatest  prodigies  in  the  whole  history  of  our  literature, 
Thomas  Chatterton  was  born    in   the    interesting   old 
town  of  Bristol.     His  mother,  left  a  widow  just  before  the 
birth  of  this  son,  started   a  milliner's  shop,   and 
bravely  took  upon  herself  the  burden  of  support- 
ing and  educating  her  family.   When  five  years  old,  Chatter- 
ton was  sent  to   school ;  but  as  the  manner  of  imparting 
instruction  does  not  seem  to  have  taken  hold  of  his  infant 
mind,  he  stayed  there  a  year  without  learning  his  letters ; 
and   at  six  the  teacher   reported   him  to  his  mother  as  a 
hopeless  dunce.   Just  before  this  time  he  saw  an  old  French 
book  with  illuminated  letters,  and  fell  so  In  love  with  it 
that   his   mother  conceived   the   idea  of  teaching  him   his 
letters  from  another  ancient  book  which  she  owned,  —  an  old 
copy  of  the  Bible  in  the  black-letter  text  in  which  the  early 
English  books  were  printed.     From  this  old  text  he  learned 
to  read ;  and  when  once    he  had  mastered  the   alphabet, 
books  became  his  delight.     By  the  time  he  was  eight,  this 
hopeless  dunce  had  devoured  every  book  he  could  lay  hands 
upon.     He  went  to  a  free  school  in  his  town,  and  had  for 
tutor  a  man  named  Phillips,  who  sometimes  wrote  verses  for 
the  current   newspapers.     For  him  Chatterton  felt  a  warm 
friendship,  and  Phillips  seems  to  have  been  the  only  person 
about  him  able  in  the  least  to  sympathize  with  his  genius. 


330  FAMILIAR   TALK'S 

The  old  church  of  St.  Mary's,  at  Bristol,  in  which  one  of 
Chatterton's  uncles  had  been  a  sexton,  was  an  ancient  and 
interesting  old  building.  In  the  fifteenth  century  it  had 
been  repaired  and  partly  rebuilt  by  worthy  Mr.  W^illiam 
Cannynge,  a  rich  citizen  of  Bristol.  In  the  time  of  Chat- 
terton's father,  a  chest  in  a  room  over  the  church  porch 
had  been  opened,  and  a  quantity  of  old  papers,  among  them 
the  deeds  of  the  church  and  other  papers  relative  to 
William  Cannynge's  bequest,  had  been  taken  out  and  re- 
moved for  safe  keeping.  Some  of  these  old  parchments, 
considered  worthless,  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  Chatter- 
ton's  father,  who  carried  off  a  quantity  to  his  housd. 

Chatterton  had  grown  to  be  eleven  or  twelve,  and  had 
already  begun  to  write  verses,  when  one  day  he  came  upon 
some  pieces  of  this  old  manuscript.  He  was  at  once  inter- 
ested in  its  history,  and  collecting  all  he  could  find,  he 
carried  his  treasures  off  to  a  room  In  his  mother's  house 
of  which  he  kept  the  key,  and  locked  them  up  there, 
guarding  them  henceforth  from  all  eyes.  He  seems  to  have 
spent  all  his  leisure  poring  over  and  imitating  the  writing 
of  the  manuscript.  He  kept  his  writing  materials  in  this 
room,  and  he  added  to  these  ochre  and  lampblack,  to  coun- 
terfeit the  yellow  and  grimy  look  of  the  parchment. 

At  fifteen  the  boy  was  apprenticed  to  an  attorney,  who 
proved  a  very  disagreeable  and  exacting  master.  Here 
Chatterton  was  set  to  work  as  copying-clerk,  and  employed 
in  all  the  various  capacities  of  an  ofificc  drudge.  Yet  he 
still  found  time  for  his  work  with  the  old  manuscripts,  and 
at  length  wrote  to  Dodsley,  a  bookseller  in  London,  that  he 
had  a  valuable  collection  of  poems  for  publication,  written 
by  Thomas  Rowley,  a  priest  of  Bristol,  in  the  fifteenth 
century,  and  a  friend  of  Mr,  Cannynge,  the  benefactor  of 
the  Bristol  church. 

These  poems  were  written  in  wonderful  imitation  of  old 
black-letter  manuscript  in  text,  in  spelling,  and  in  style. 
But  the  poor  boy  could  get  little  notice  from  either  the 
bookseller  or  the  rich  patrons  of  literature  to  whom  he  sent 
an  account  of  these  treasures.     Discouraged  at  his  want  of 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  33 1 

success  in  Bristol,  he  resolved  to  go  to  London  and  live  by 
his  pen. 

Chatterton  was  only  a  little  more  than  seventeen  when,  in 
the  spring  of  1770,  he  came  up  to  the  great  city  with  high 
hopes  and  full  of  courage.  He  began  at  once  to  write  for 
magazines  and  newspapers,  and  at  first  met  with  enough 
success  to  encourage  him  in  splendid  dreams  of  fame  and 
fortune.  He  wrote  glowing  accounts  to  his  mother  and 
sister  of  what  he  intended  to  achieve ;  he  spent  his  earn- 
ings in  presents  for  them,  —  a  set  of  china  for  his  mother,  a 
fan  for  his  sister,  and  other  trinkets  to  send  home  to  Bristol. 
But  his  bright  hopes  faded ;  the  little  money  he  could  earn 
was  barely  enough  for  his  scanty  support,  and  he  gradually  fell 
from  his  lofty  mood  to  one  of  despair.  Forced  by  necessity, 
he  went  in  midsummer  to  take  a  cheap  lodging  in  the  house 
of  a  dressmaker  in  London.  Too  proud  to  make  known 
his  wants  or  ask  assistance,  he  was  soon  on  the  verge  of 
starvation.  One  evening  in  August,  when  he  had  been  for 
two  or  three  days  without  his  dinner,  his  landlady,  mistrust- 
ing his  condition,  invited  him  to  dine  with  her.  With 
characteristic  pride,  he  refused  the  dinner,  and  shutting  him- 
self up  in  his  room,  he  ended  his  short,  sad  life  with  a  dose 
of  arsenic.  He  was  found  dead  next  morning  in  his  room, 
among  a  litter  of  papers  torn  into  bits,  which  he  had  de- 
stroyed before  taking  the  poison,  without  a  word  of  farewell 
or  explanation.  Thus  ended,  in  suicide  and  despair,  the 
brief  life  of  the  greatest  prodigy  in  the  history  of  English 
literature. 

It  was  after  his  death  that  the  discussion  about  the  poetry 
which  he  claims  was  written  by  Thomas  Rowley  began.  It 
was  a  controversy  much  hotter,  and  engaged  men  more 
eminent,  than  even  Percy's  ballads  or  Macpherson's  trans- 
lations. But  the  best  authorities  agreed  that  the  old  poems 
must  have  been  written  by  Chatterton  only,  and  that  Row- 
ley was  the  pseudonym  under  which  he  had  sought  to 
hide  his  own  work,  believing,  no  doubt,  that  more  fiime 
would  attach  to  them  with  Rowley's  name  than  the  works 
themselves  would  bring. 


332  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

The  most  remarkable  among  the  poems  ascribed  to  Row- 
K  y  are  a  ballad  on  the  Execution  of  Sir  Charles  Bawdin  ; 
The  Tragedy  of  Ella  ;  The  Battle  of  Hastings  ;  The  Tour- 
nament ;  and  A  Description  of  Canny nge's  Eeast. 

The  Execution  of  Sir  Charles  Bawdin,  although  it  has 
less  poetical  merit  than  Ella,  is  most  in  keeping  with  the  an- 
tique style  Chatterton  strove  to  imitate,  and  has  in  it  a  good 
deal  of  the  ring  of  the  early  ballad.     It  begins  thus  :  — 

"  The  feathered  songster  chanticleer  ^ 
Had  wound  his  bugle  horn, 
And  told  the  early  villager 
The  coming  of  the  morn. 

"  King  Edward  saw  the  ruddy  streaks 
Of  light  eclipse  the  gray, 
And  heard  the  raven's  croaking  throat 
Proclaim  the  fated  day. 

"  '  Thou  'st  right,'  quoth  he  ;  '  for  by  the  God 
That  sits  enthroned  on  high, 
Charles  Bawdin  and  his  fellows  twain 
To-day  shall  surely  die  ! ' 

"Then  with  a  jug  of  nappy  ale 
His  knights  did  on  him  wait: 
'  Go  tell  the  traitor  that  to-day 
He  leaves  this  mortal  state.' 

"  Sir  Canterlone  then  bended  low, 

With  heart  brimful  of  woe  ; 

He  journeyed  to  the  castle-gate, 

And  to  Sir  Charles  did  go. 

^  As  the  ancient  spelling  which  Chatterton  used  was  merely  the 
artificial  form  into  which  he  put  his  verses,  and  it  would  make  it  more 
difficult  to  read  if  I  followed  it,  I  give  it  to  you  in  ordinary  spelling. 
This  is  a  specimen  of  the  stanzas  in  antique  spelling  :  — 

"  The  feathered  chanti  cleerc 
Han  wounde  hys  bu.tjle  horn, 
And  tolde  the  carlie  villager 
The  commj-nge  of  the  morn. 

"  King  Edward  saw  the  ruddie  streakes 
Of  lyghte  eclypse  the  grcic, 
And  herdc  tlie  raven's  rrokynge  throte 
Proclaime  the  fated  daye." 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  333 

"But  when  he  came,  his  children  twain, 
And  eke  his  loving  wife, 
"With  briny  tears  did  wet  the  floor 
For  good  Sir  Charles's  life. 

"'  Oh,  good  Sir  Charles,'  said  Canterlone, 
'  Bad  tidings  I  do  bring.' 
•Speak  boldly,  man,'  said  brave  Sir  Charles, 
'  What  says  the  traitor  king  ? ' 

"  '  I  grieve  to  tell,  before  yon  sun 

Does  from  the  welkin  fly, 

He  hath  upon  his  honor  sworn 

That  thou  shalt  surely  die.' 

"*  We  all  must  die,'  said  brave  Sir  Charles, — 
'  Of  that  I  am  not  afeared. 
What  boots  to  live  a  little  space? 
Thank  Jesus,  I  'm  prepared.'  " 

In  spite  of  the  intercession  of  Sir  Charles's  friends,  among 
whom  is  worthy  Mr.  Cannynge  of  Bristol,  the  king  refuses 
to  repeal  his  sentence,  and  the  knight,  after  an  affecting 
leave-taking  with  his  wife  and  children,  is  led  out  to 
execution. 

"  Before  him  went  the  councilmen 
In  scarlet  robes  and  gold, 
And  tassels  spangling  in  the  sun, 
Much  glorious  to  behold. 

"The  friars  of  St.  Augustine  next 
Appeared  to  the  sight, 
All  clad  in  homely  russet  weeds 
Of  godly  monkish  plight. 

"In  different  parts  a  godly  psalm 
Most  sweetly  they  did  chant; 
Behind  their  backs  six  minstrels  came, 

Who  tuned  tke  strange  bataunt. 

• 

"  Then  five  and  twenty  archers  came  ; 
Each  one  the  bow  did  bend. 
From  rescue  of  King  Henry's  friends. 
Sir  Charles  for  to  defend. 

"Bold  as  a  lion  came  Sir  Charles, 
Drawn  on  a  cloth-laid  sled 
By  two  black  steeds  in  trappings  white. 
With  plumes  upon  their  head. 


334  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

"  Behind  him  five  and  twenty  more 
Of  archers  strong  and  stout, 
\Vith  bended  bow  each  one  in  hand. 
Marched  in  goodly  rout. 

"  Saint  James's  friars  marched  next, 
Each  one  his  part  did  chant ; 
Behind  their  backs  six  minstrels  came, 
Who  tuned  the  strange  bataunt. 

"  Then  came  the  mayor  and  aldermen, 
In  cloth  of  scarlet  decked  ; 
And  their  attending  men,  each  one 
Like  eastern  princes  tricked. 

"  And  after  them  a  multitude 
Of  citizens  did  throng; 
The  windows  were  all  full  of  heads 
As  he  did  pass  along." 

In  the  midst  of  this  gorgeous  procession  the  knight  goes 
on  to  death  steadfast  and  unafraid  ;  he  mounts  the  scaf- 
fold without  trembUng,  and  beards  the  king  as  a  traitor ; 
and  with  a  prayer,  — 

"  Then  kneeling  down,  he  laid  his  head 
Most  seemly  on  the  block  ; 
Which  from  his  body  fair  at  once 
The  able  headsman  stroke. 

"  And  out  the  blood  began  to  flow. 
And  round  the  scaffold  twine ; 
And  tears  enough  to  wash 't  away 
Did  flow  from  each  man's  eyen. 

"  Thus  was  the  end  of  Bawdin's  fate. 
God  prosper  long  our  king, 
And  grant  he  may  with  Bawdin's  soul 
In  li«aven  God's  mercy  sing  I  " 

Besides  the  poems  which  Chatterton  pretended  were 
written  by  Rowley,  he  published  almost  as  many  others 
under  his  own  name.  These  are  not  equal  in  merit  to  the 
Rowley  poems,  but  they  show  promise  of  a  genius  which 
would  have  grown  and  ripened  with  age.  As  a  specimen 
of  his    style    when    he    was    not  trying  to  conceal  himself 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  335 

behind  the  name  of  the  fifteenth  century  monk,  we  will  read 
a  few  stanzas  from  an  Elegy  he  wrote  on  Mr.  Phillips,  his 
teacher  in  Bristol  Free  School,  whose  death  he  laments  in  a 
measure  like  that  of  Gray's  Elegy.  He  begins  by  praising 
Phillips  as  a  poet  (Phillips  had  written  verses  while  Chat- 
terton  was  his  pupil) ,  and  then  bewails  his  loss  as  a  friend 
in  these  lines  :  — 

"  Wet  with  the  dew,  the  yellow  hawthorns  bow  ; 

The  loud  winds  whistle  through  the  echoing  cave ; 
Far  o'er  the  lea  the  breathing  cattle  low, 
And  the  full  Avon  lifts  the  darkened  wave. 

"  Now  as  the  mantle  of  the  evening  swells, 
Upon  my  mind  I  feel  a  thickening  gloom ; 
Ah  !  could  I  charm  by  necromantic  spells 
The  soul  of  Phillips  from  the  deathly  tomb ! 

"  Then  would  we  wander  through  this  darkened  vale 
In  converse  such  as  heavenly  spirits  use, 
And,  borne  upon  the  pinions  of  the  gale. 
Hymn  the  Creator  and  invoke  the  muse. 

"Now  rest,  my  muse,  but  only  rest  to  weep 
A  friend  most  dear  by  every  sacred  tie ; 
Unknown  to  me  be  comfort,  peace,  or  sleep  ; 
Phillips  is  dead,  — 't  is  pleasure  then  to  die. 

"  Few  are  the  pleasures  Chatterton  e'er  knew, 

Short  were  the  moments  of  his  transient  peace; 
But  melancholy  robbed  him  of  those  few. 
And  this  hath  bid  all  future  comfort  cease." 

These  verses  are  crude  and  boyish ;  but  it  is  the  crudity 
of  genius,  not  the  sort  of  precocity  that  exhausts  itself  in 
one  or  two  efforts.  We  must  believe  that  if  Chatterton  had 
only  been  strong  and  patient  enough  to  wait  a  little  longer, 
or  if  he  had  found  one  helping  hand  stretched  out  to  hold 
him  up  in  time  of  sorest  need,  he  might  have  stood  in  the 
front  rank  of  poets. 

The  works  of  Percy,  Macpherson,  and  Chatterton  were 
all  published  within  a  period  of  less  than  ten  years.  These 
reprints  of  old  English  songs,  these  fragments  restored  from 
old  Celtic  bards,  even  the  ballads  in  which  poor  Chatterton 


336  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

imitated  the  lays  of  an  elder  age,  —  all  indicated  a  return  to 
a  fresher  and  more  natural  school  of  poetry.  For  almost  a 
century  popular  taste  had  been  held  in  a  sort  of  bondage 
by  Dryden  and  Pope  and  the  poets  who  followed  them. 
Even  the  untaught  lay  of  the  earliest  minstrel  was  refresh- 
ing to  ears  which  were  tired  of  the  see-saw  verses,  rhymed 
in  pairs,  which  had  so  long  been  heard.  Thus  we  see  it 
is  quite  natural  that  this  should  lead  finally  to  a  reaction 
towards  something  new  and  fresh  in  poetic  treatment,  and 
to  a  change  in  popular  taste. 


L. 

On  William  Cowper  and  Robert  Burns. 


w 


ILLIAM  COWPER  stands  midway  between  two 
events  in  the  history  of  poetry,  —  the  going  out  of 
Pope,  and  the  coming  in  of  Wordsworth.  He  was 
a  boy  of  thirteen  when  Pope  died,  with  the  repu- 
tation of  being  the  greatest  of  English  poets ;  and  in  1800, 
the  year  of  Cowper's  death,  a  few  persons  were  beginning 
to  suspect  that  Wordsworth  was  the  foremost  poet  of  a  new 
order.  If  we  look  closely  into  Cowper's  poetry,  I  think  we 
shall  find  in  it  a  remembrance  of  Pope,  and  a  prophecy  of 
Wordsworth. 

His  life  was  early  clouded  with  a  great  sorrow.  At  six 
years,  he  lost  his  mother.  One  of  his  most  feeling  poems, 
Lines  on  Receipt  of  my  Mothet's  Picture,  speaks  of  this 
grief:  — 

"  My  mother  !  when  I  learned  that  thou  wast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son, 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun  ? 
Perhaps  thou  gav'st  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss ; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss. 

"  I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu." 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  337 

The  sadness  which  began  so  young  was  made  deeper 
by  his  fear  of  becoming  insane,  —  for  insanity  threatened 
him  early  in  life,  —  and  also  by  his  morbid  religious  fears. 
Although  a  pious,  pure-souled  man,  the  gloomy  doctrines  of 
his  belief  took  such  hold  on  his  mind  that  they  made  him 
miserable  through  life,  and  hung  like  a  black  pall  over  the 
future. 

Yet  his  poetry  is  by  no  means  all  sadness,  and  is  some- 
times bright  and  gay.  He  began  to  write  later  than  most 
poets,  and  writing  became  his  chief  pleasure,  helping  to 
avert  that  insanity  which  had  twice  attacked  him.  He  pub- 
lished first  a  volume  of  short  poems.  Later  appeared  The 
Task,  the  longest  and  most  famous  of  all  his  works.  This 
begins  with  the  praise  of  the  sofa;  traces  its  growth  from  a 
three-legged  stool  to  a  luxurious  couch ;  and  then,  leading 
away  from  the  fireside  by  which  the  sofa  is  placed,  the 
poem  leads  into  rural  wanderings,  in  which  the  poet  talks  of 
Nature  and  her  lessons.  The  measure  is  blank  verse,  and 
although  in  subject  it  is  not  unlike  some  of  those  long  di- 
dactic poems  written  earlier  than  Cowper,  it  is  in  a  natural 
and  hearty  tone  that  makes  it  far  superior  to  most  poetry  of 
the  didactic  style. 

Perhaps  Cowper's  most  widely  read  poem  is  the  ballad  of 
'yohn  Gilpin.  The  story  was  told  him  one  evening  by  a 
lady  who  had  encouraged  him  to  write,  and  who  suggested 
the  subject  of  The  Task  to  him.  The  picture  of  Gilpin 
galloping  off  on  a  horse  that  would  not  be  stopped  so 
touched  Cowper's  sense  of  humor  that  he  could  hardly 
sleep  for  laughter  the  night  after  hearing  it,  and  could  not 
rest  till  he  had  put  it  into  a  ballad. 

The  last  poem  he  wrote  was  The  Castaway,  —  one  of 
the  dreariest  and  saddest  of  poems.  This  seems  like  a 
picture  of  Cowper's  own  mind,  and  he  himself  traces  the 
likeness  in  the  first  and  last  stanzas :  — 

"  Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky. 
The  Atlantic  billows  roared, 
When  such  a  destined  wretch  as  I, 
Washed  headlong  from  on  board, 

22 


338  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Of  friends,  of  hope,  of  all  bereft. 
His  floating  home  forever  left. 

"Not  long  beneath  the  whelming  brine, 

Expert  to  swim,  he  lay. 
Nor  soon  he  felt  his  strength  decline, 

Or  courage  die  away, 
But  waged  with  death  a  lasting  strife, 
Supported  by  despair  of  life. 

"  He  shouted  ;  nor  his  friends  had  failed 
To  check  the  vessel's  course  ; 
But  so  the  furious  blast  prevailed 

That,  pitiless  perforce. 
They  left  their  outcast  mate  behind, 
And  scudded  still  before  the  wind. 

"  Some  succor  yet  they  could  afford. 
And  such  as  storms  allow, — 
The  cask,  the  coop,  the  floated  cord,— 

Delayed  not  to  bestow ; 
But  he,  they  knew,  nor  ship,  nor  shore, 
Whate'er  they  gave,  should  visit  more. 

"  Nor  cruel,  as  it  seemed,  could  he 
Their  haste  himself  condemn, 
Aware  that  flight,  in  such  a  sea. 

Alone  could  rescue  them  ; 
Yet  bitter  felt  it  still  to  die 
Deserted,  and  his  friends  so  nigh. 

"  He  long  survives  who  lives  an  hour 
In  ocean  self-ui)held ; 
And  so  long  he,  with  unspent  power, 

His  destiny  re[)elled. 
And  ever,  as  the  minutes  flew, 
Entreated  help,  or  cried,  '  Adieu  ! ' 

"  At  length,  his  transient  respite  past, 
His  comrades,  who  before 
Had  heard  his  voice  in  every  blast, 
Could  catch  the  sound  no  more  ; 
For  then,  by  toil  subdued,  he  drank 
The  stifling  wave,  and  then  he  sank. 

"  I  therefore  purpose  not,  or  dream, 
Descanting  on  his  fate. 
To  give  the  melancholy  theme 
A  more  enduring  dale; 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  339 

But  misery  still  delights  to  trace 
Its  semblance  in  another's  case. 

"No  voice  divine  the  storm  allayed. 

No  light  propitious  shone, 
When,  snatched  from  all  effectual  aid, 

We  perished,  each  alone, — 
But  I  beneath  a  rougher  sea. 
And  whelmed  in  deeper  gulfs  than  he." 

One  noticeable  thing  in  Cowper's  verses  is  his  sympathy 
with  the  humanity  of  which  he  was  part,  —  a  feeling  for  the 
suffering  and  oppressed  everywhere.  There  is  hardly  a 
poem  of  his  which  does  not  speak  this.  The  Task  is  full 
of  such  lines  :  — 

"  My  soul  is  sick  with  every  day's  report 
Of  wrong  and  outrage,  with  which  earth  is  filled." 

And  again,  — 

"  I  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  my  ground, 
To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleep. 
And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth 
That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earned." 

This  tenderness  in  Cowper  breaks  out  even  for  the  most 
helpless  animal,  — 

"  I  would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends 
(Though  graced  with  polished  manners  and  fine  sense, 
Yet  wanting  sensibility),  the  man 
Who  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a  worm." 

This  spirit  of  humanity,  of  sympathy  for  the  sorrows  and 
ardor  for  the  rights  of  man,  had  long  needed  a  voice  among 
the  poets,  and  it  was  only  a  year  later  than  Cowper's  Task 
when  a  little  volume  of  poems  apppeared,  in  which  this 
voice  spoke  with  a  power  it  had  never  before  possessed. 

This  volume  was  published  in  Scotland,  and  written  by 
Robert  Burns,  a  poet  of  the  people.     He  was 
the  son  of  a  farmer,  and  was  himself  a  f:\rm  la- 
borer till  manhood.     Without  training  or  the  culture  of  the 
schools,  he  was  a  born  poet,  singing  his  songs  in  the  dialect 
of  Scotland,  —  the  homely  English  spoken  by  the  Scottish 


340  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

people,  often  inelegant  and  full  of  roughness,  but  rich  in 
expression  and  feeling.  As  he  was  fettered  with  no  rules 
of  verse-making,  Burns  sang  with  an  ease  and  freedom  that 
brought  back  the  earlier  days  of  song.  Yet  his  poetry  had 
also  a  ring  in  it  that  was  the  echo  of  the  modern  spirit. 
It  was  ten  years  after  the  American  Revolution,  which  had 
declared  that  men  were  equal  in  rights ;  it  was  on  the  very 
threshold  of  the  French  Revolution,  —  an  outburst  of  de- 
mocracy that  revenged  the  wrongs  the  French  people  had 
suffered  for  centuries,  —  that  Burns  began  to  sing.  It  is 
not  strange  that  from  lips  like  his,  his  voice  rang  like  a 
slogan-cry  when  he  spoke  for  humanity. 

Poetry  had  not  before  found  vent  in  words  like  these  : 

HONEST   POVERTY. 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hangs  his  head  an'  a'  that? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by, 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that ; 

Our  toils  obscure,  an'  a'  that; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp  ! 

The  man  's  the  goud  for  a'  that. 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hoddin  grey,  and  a'  that  I 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 

A  man  's  a  man  for  a'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that ; 

Their  tinsel  show  an'  a'  that : 
The  honest  man,  though  e'er  sac  poor, 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  an'  a'  that ; 
But  an  honest  man  's  aboon  his  might, 

Guid  faith  I  he  maunna  fa'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Their  dignities  an'  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense  an'  pride  o'  worth 

Are  higher  ranks  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that,  come  it  may, 
As  come  it  will  for  a'  that, 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  341 

That  sense  and  worth  o'er  a'  the  earth 

May  bear  the  gree  an'  a'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that ; 

It 's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that, 
That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that. 

These  were  noble  lines,  and  Burns  wrote  many  such. 
He  is  also  full  of  the  true  spirit  of  song, —  arch,  tender, 
exquisite.  Never,  since  the  early  song-writers,  had  there 
been  anything  more  natural  than  his  little  love-songs : 

"  She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing. 
She  is  a  bonnie  wee  thing, 
This  sweet  wee  wife  of  mine. 

"  I  never  saw  a  fairer, 
I  never  lo'ed  a  dearer. 
And  neist  my  heart  I  'U  wear  her, 
For  fear  my  jewel  tine. 

"  The  warld's  wrack,  we  share  it, 
The  wrastle  and  the  care  o't 
\Vi'  her  I  '11  blithely  bear  it, 
And  think  my  lot  sublime." 

Or  this :  — 

"Oh,  my  luve  is  like  the  red,  red  rose 

That 's  newly  sprung  in  June  ; 
Oh,  my  luve  is  like  the  melodie 

That  's  sweetly  played  in  tune. 
As  fair  thou  art,  my  bonnie  lass. 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I, 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear. 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry." 

Of  such  songs  as  these  Burns  wrote  scores ;  and  yet,  in 
the  midst  of  their  careless  music,  the  deeper  undersong 
constantly  makes  itself  heard,  as  this  plea  for  human 
charity :  — 

"  Then  gently  scan  your  brother-man, 
Still  gentler  sister-woman ; 
Tho'  they  may  gang  a  kennin'  wrang, 
To  step  aside  is  human. 


342  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

"  Who  made  the  heart,  't  is  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us  ; 
He  knows  each  chord,  its  various  tone; 

Each  spring,  its  various  bias. 
Tiien  at  the  balance  let 's  be  mute,  — 

We  never  can  adjust  it,  — 
What 's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  ivuow  not  what 's  resisted." 

Just  about  the  same  time  with  Cowper  and  Burns  came 

George  Crabbe,  whose  first  poem  of  any  note,  T/ie 
1754-1832 

Viiiage,  was  pubhshed  a  year  or  two  before  Cow- 

per's  Task.  There  is  something  in  Crabbe  which  reminds 
one  of  Cowper,  and  something,  besides  the  title,  which  re- 
calls Goldsmith's  Descried  Village.  He  paints  scenes  of 
nature,  and  domestic  life  among  the  poor.  His  Tales  in 
verse,  which  were  taken  from  humble  life,  first  gave  him  a 
name  among  poets.  Then  he  wrote  Tales  of  the  Hall,  and 
drew  his  characters  from  a  higher  rank ;  but  these  were  not 
nearly  so  happy  in  their  description  as  the  first.  They  were 
very  much  read  and  liked  in  the  early  part  of  this  century ; 
but  I  think  Crabbe's  day  as  a  poet  is  past,  and  that  he  is 
one  whose  name  will  remain  in  the  archives  of  the  poets 
long  after  his  poetry  has  ceased  to  be  read.  He  was  too 
realistic  to  be  a  great  poet ;  every  line  he  wrote  was  true  to 
nature.  But  Poetry  must  not  be  the  naked  Truth  :  Truth's 
fair  form  must  be  veiled  by  Fancy,  in  order  to  enter  the 
ideal  world  of  Poetry.  Although  there  never  was  a  measure 
so  well  adapted  to  commonplace  subjects  as  that  he  used, 
yet  in  Crabbe's  hands  it  sometimes  is  more  than  common- 
place, it  is  comically  matter-of-fact.  This,  in  his  best  style, 
is  the  opening  of  one  of  the  Tales  :  — 

"  Genius,  thou  gift  of  heaven,  thou  light  divine. 
Amid  what  dangers  art  thou  doomed  to  shine  ! 
Oft  will  the  body's  weakness  check  thy  force, 
Oft  damp  thy  vigor  and  impede  thy  course  ; 
And  trembling  nerves  compel  thee  to  restrain 
Thy  nobler  efforts,  to  contend  with  ]iain ; 
Or  Want  (sad  guest)  will  in  thy  presence  come, 
And  breathe  around  her  melancholy  gloom  ; 
So  life's  low  cares  will  thy  jiroud  thought  confine. 
And  make  her  sufferings,  her  impatience,  thine." 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  343 

It  is  difficult  to  decide  among  what  group  of  poets  to 
class  Samuel  Rogers.  He  was  contemporary  with  the 
whole  line,  from  Covvper  almost  to  our  own  time. 
His  first  poems  appeared  when  Cowper  began  to 
write ;  his  Pleasures  of  Memory  was  pubhshed  about  the 
time  Wordsworth  was  bringing  out  the  Lyrical  Ballads ; 
his  Italy  was  nearly  contemporary  with  the  death  of  Shel- 
ley ;  and  he  lived  to  see  Tennyson  called  the  greatest  poet 
of  this  generation.  At  his  hospitable  home,  the  abode  of 
good  taste  in  literature  and  art,  one  might  have  met  the 
finest  wits  of  more  than  half  this  century. 

Rogers's  Pleasures  of  Memory  is  one  of  those  didactic 
poems,  such  as  Akenside's  Pleasures  of  the  Itnagination, 
which  appeared  fifty  years  earlier,  or  Campbell's  Pleasures 
of  Hope,  written  a  little  later,  in  which  the  poet  exalts  one 
quality  of  the  mind  over  all  the  others,  and  makes  it  the 
theme  on  which  to  hang  his  musings  on  nature  and  human 
life.  A  dozen  lines  of  his  apostrophe  to  Memory  will  suf- 
fice to  show  the  poet's  style  : — 

"  Hail,  Memory,  hail  !  in  thy  exhaustless  mine 
From  age  to  age  unnumbered  treasures  shine  I 
Thought  and  her  shadowy  brood  thy  call  obey. 
And  place  and  time  are  subject  to  thy  sway ! 
Thy  pleasures  most  we  feel  when  most  alone, — 
The  only  pleasures  we  can  call  our  own. 
Lighter  than  air,  Hope's  summer  visions  die, 
If  but  a  fleeting  cloud  obscure  the  sky; 
If  but  a  beam  of  sober  reasfln  play, 
Lo,  Fancy's  fairy  frost-work  melts  away ! 
But  can  the  wiles  of  art,  the  grasp  of  power, 
Snatch  the  rich  relics  of  a  well-spent  hour  ? 
These,  when  the  trembling  spirit  wings  her  flight. 
Pour  round  her  path  a  stream  of  living  light, 
And  gild  those  pure  and  perfect  realms  of  rest 
Where  virtue  triumphs,  and  her  sons  are  blest!" 

This  poem  on  Italy  is  in  blank  verse,  with  now  and 
then  a  fragment  in  prose,  and  is  a  sort  of  poetical  journal 
of  a  tour  in  Italy,  in  which  he  puts  down  descriptions  of 
places,  the  impressions  made  on  his  mind  by  the  new 
scenes,  and  various  tales  or  adventures  he  met  with  in  the 


344  FAMILIAR    TALKS. 

travels.  The  story  of  Genevra,  the  bride  who  was  hidden  in 
the  oak  chest  on  her  bridal  day,  and  was  never  found  till 
years  after,  when  her  skeleton  was  discovered  in  decayed 
bridal  robes,  is  one  of  the  best-known  episodes  of  the 
poem. 

These  poets,  Cowper,  Burns,  Crabbe,  and  Rogers,  may  be 
said  to  stand  midway  between  the  old  and  the  new  in 
poetry.  Crabbe  and  Rogers  were  not  men  to  make  any 
revolution,  and  were  poets  who  would  take  then-  color  from 
the  greater  geniuses  around  them ;  but  Cowper  showed 
signs  of  a  change,  while  Burns's  songs  may  be  said  to  be  the 
first  awaking  of  a  new  spirit  in  English  poetry.  Although 
he  founded  no  school  and  made  no  revolution  in  literature, 
he  is  the  minstrel  of  a  new  order.  Hitherto  the  minstrel 
sits  in  the  court  of  the  king,  and  sings  only  to  the  ear  of 
royalty.  He  has  gone  to  battle  with  the  king's  hosts,  and 
sometimes  fallen  in  the  king's  hour  of  triumph.  But  this 
new  minstrel,  who  sings  songs  to  poverty  and  honest  man- 
hood, whose  love  is  in  no  royal  bowers,  and  whose  triumphs 
are  not  of  war, — this  is  Robert  Burns,  the  ploughman,  the 
minstrel  of  the  people. 


PART    VI. 


THE   LAKE   SCHOOL   AND    ITS 
CONTEMPORARIES. 

1790    TO    1832. 


INTRODUCTORY. 

IN  studying  the  progress  of  poetry  from  the  earliest  times, 
you  will  see  that,  like  laws  or  government  or  religion, 
it  is  subject  to  many  changes,  and  that  there  are  revolutions 
in  literature  as  well  as  in  history.  The  poets  of  one 
period  have  all  a  certain  likeness ;  even  though  each  may 
be  in  his  way  original,  his  work  will  bear  the  mark  of  his 
own  time,  and  follow  the  prevailing  fashion.  This  con- 
tinues till  some  man  of  great  originality  and  power  appears, 
who  by  his  genius  turns  taste  into  new  channels,  and  draw- 
ing after  him  a  crowd  who  imitate  him  in  his  manner, 
founds  what  we  call  a  tiew  school  of  poetry. 

We  have  seen  how  Pope  had  thus  made  a  school,  in 
which,  as  somebody  says,  "  French  taste  was  ruled  by  Eng- 
lish understanding ;"  and  for  almost  a  century  his  influence 
kept  poetry  in  smooth,  easy,  flowing  rhymes,  but  yet  very 
artificial  beside  the  naturalness  of  the  earlier  poets.  Cole- 
ridge, of  whom  I  am  now  going  to  speak,  says,  "  The  Pope 
school  sacrificed  the  heart  to  the  head ; "  and  that  is,  I 
think,  as  good  a  statement  as  can  be  made  of  it. 

1  pointed  out  in  my  last  Talk  that  in  Cowper  there  is  an 
effort  to  make  the  head  and  the  heart  work  together,  and 
showed  that  in  the  Scotch  poet  Burns  we  have  the  first 
outburst  of  the  real  minstrel  poet  since  the  seventeenth 
century.  But  neither  Cowper  nor  Burns  was  a  man  to 
found  a  school  of  poetry ;  they  were  only  men  who  in- 
fluenced it.  Such  work  as  Percy  and  Macpherson  had 
done  also  aroused  a  taste  for  a  new  order  of  verse ;  but 
the  great  departure  from  Pope,  and  the  setting  up  of  new 
ideas  as  the  basis  of  poetry,  was  begun  by  what  we  call 
the  Lake  School.  It  is  of  this  school  that  I  am  going  to 
give  you  a  brief  account. 


348  FAMILIAR   TALKS 

You  remember  I  have  said  that  Robert  Bums  began  to 
write  between  two  great  revolutions,  —  the  revoUition  of  the 
people  in  America  and  that  in  France.  In  both  these  revo- 
lutions there  was  everything  to  stir  up  men's  thoughts; 
and  in  the  stirring  up  of  thoughts  there  must  always  follow 
a  stimulus  to  poetry,  because  poetry  is  only  the  highest 
thought  of  the  most  imaginative  minds,  inspired  by  the  most 
stirring  events.  The  thought  underlying  the  American  and 
French  revolutions  was  that  all  men,  even  the  poorest  and 
lowest,  have  supreme  rights,  —  rights  to  life,  freedom,  and  to 
the  largest  amount  of  happiness  possible.  They  were  the 
same  thoughts  that  the  best  minds  in  America  put  into  our 
Declaration  of  Independence,  —  the  same  that  Burns  put 
into  his  A  Mafi  's  a  Ma?i  for  a'  That.  It  is  plain  —  is  it 
not  ?  —  that  these  thoughts,  which  in  their  birth  shook  gov- 
ernments, religion,  and  society  as  if  they  had  been  reeds  in 
a  tempest,  must  enter  into  and  move  the  poet  more  than 
any  other  man  of  his  time. 

While  these  doctrines  of  liberty,  equality,  and  brother- 
hood among  men  were  being  spread  far  and  wide  by  the 
French  Revolution,  there  were  two  young  men  in  England 
in  whose  minds  they  took  root.  The  first  of  these  young  men 
was  WiLLLUi  Wordsworth,  a  student  in  Cam- 
bridge, who  early  in  youth  had  felt  himself  con- 
secrated as  a  poet ;  the  other  was  Samuel  Taylor  Cole- 

.    RIDGE,  who  was  in  London  at  Christ's  Hospital 
1772—1834 

school,  and  who  was  also  fired  with  a  poetical 

ardor  as  intense  as  that  of  Wordsworth. 

Of  these  two  young  men  Wordsworth  was  the  elder  by 
two  years.  They  had  not  met  each  other  when  the  revo- 
lutionary fire  broke  out  in  them,  although  they  afterwards 
became  warm  friends ;  but  both  had  written  verses  on  the 
French  Revolution,  and  both  were  smitten  with  the  same 
ardor  for  equal  rights  and  human  brotherhood. 

Wordsworth  left  college  in  1791  and  went  to  France, 
then  in  the  midst  of  her  Revolution.  I  may  as  well  tell  you 
here  that  the  horrors  of  bloodshed  which  followed  the  Revo- 
lution shook  Wordsworth's  faith  in  the  ideas  at  work  there. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  349 

and  led  to  a  change  in  opinions  which  turned  him  from  a 
violent  democrat  to  a  stanch  English  monarchist. 

In  the  mean  time  Coleridge  went  to  Cambridge,  whence 
he  ran  away  and  came  to  London,  with  some  vague  idea  of 
living  by  his  pen.  He  soon  grew  so  poor  that,  as  a  resource 
against  starving,  he  enlisted  as  a  private  in  the  cavalry. 
He  knew  nothing  of  soldiering,  and  could  not  even  sit  a 
horse  properly.  When  suddenly  asked  his  name,  he  says, 
not  wishing  to  give  his  real  one,  "  I  answered,  Cumberback ; 
and  verily  my  habits  were  so  little  equestrian  that  my  horse, 
I  doubt  not,  was  of  that  opinion." 

His  friends  found  him  out,  and  he  was  released  from  the 
service.  Not  long  after,  he  met  Robert  Southey,  a  young 
man  of  nearly  his  own  age,  and  of  opinions  after  his  own 
heart.  Southey  also  was  a  radical,  and  a  budding  poet 
who  had  written  in  college  a  poem,  Wat  Tyler,  which  had 
been  pronounced  seditious  and  revolutionary.  The  two 
began  a  friendship  natural  to  their  age  and  their  congenial 
opinions,  —  a  friendship  afterwards  made  stronger  by  their 
marriage  with  two  sisters.  They  made  a  plan  to  emigrate 
to  America  and  form  a  colony  which  should  be  established 
on  the  ideas  of  religion  and  government  which  they  held 
sacred ;  but  this  plan  failed,  and  while  Southey  went  to  cool 
his  youthful  opinions  in  a  tour  in  Europe,  Coleridge  went 
down  to  a  little  town  in  the  south  of  England,  where  he 
met  Wordsworth  for  the  first  time.  They  were  both  filled 
with  the  same  ideas,  and  both  had  published  a  little  volume 
of  poetry ;  it  was  natural  that  they  should  become  warm 
friends,  and  that  they  should  exert  a  great  influence  each 
on  the  other. 

Their  interchange  of  thought,  their  long  rambles  to- 
gether in  the  lanes  and  woods  of  England,  led  to  the 
publication  of  a  little  volume  of  poems,  with  a  preface 
setting  forth  their  theories  about  poetry,  which  finally  gave 
them  and  those  who  agreed  with  them  the  name  of  the 
Lake  School.  They  were  given  this  name  from  the  beau- 
tiful lake  region  of  England  in  Cumberland  and  West- 
moreland, where  Wordsworth  and  Southey  afterwards  went 


350  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

to  live.  Coleridge  never  took  up  his  residence  there, 
although  he  was  constantly  going  and  coming,  till,  as 
Southey  said,  "  his  movements  could  no  more  be  calcu- 
lated than  those  of  a  comet." 

The  Lyrical  Ballads  —  the  first  publication  of  the  Lake 
School  —  was  written  on  the  theory  that  poetry  might  be 
the  simple,  natural  language  of  men  under  the  influence  of 
strong  feeling ;  that  it  should  be  free  to  treat  the  humblest 
incident  of  daily  life  ;  that  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  common 
men  were  the  noblest  motive  for  verse  ;  and  that  a  poet  was 
no  superhuman  being,  but  "  only  a  man  speaking  to  other 
men."  This  statement  of  the  poet's  purpose  was  the  key- 
note of  the  revolution  in  poetry ;  and  you  will  see  that  it 
was  a  note  in  harmony  with  a  spirit  very  different  from,  and 
more  modern  than,  that  of  Pope,  or  any  poet  before  his 
time. 

To  us  there  seems  nothing  very  alarming  or  strange  in 
this  statement,  and  we  have  learned  to  love  and  reverence 
the  poetry  which  it  introduced.  But  the  storm  of  criticism, 
of  laughter,  of  contempt  that  was  raised  against  these 
poets  was  tremendous.  For  nearly  twenty  years  public 
opinion  was  dead  set  against  them  ;  and  soon  after  the  first 
little  edition  of  five  hundred  copies  was  printed,  the  dis- 
couraged publisher  gave  Mr.  Wordsworth  his  riglits  in  the 
book  as  a  worthless  gift.  But  neither  the  men  nor  their 
poetry  was  to  be  crushed,  and  from  year  to  year  it  grew 
more  and  more  into  favor,  till  at  Wordsworth's  death  (he 
lived  to  be  eighty)  he  knew  himself  judged  by  most  as  the 
great  poet  of  his  generation,  and  by  many  critics  ranked  as 
the  sixth  great  poet  in  the  line  from  Chaucer.^ 

Having  thus  given  you,  in  as  few  words  as  I  could,  the 
story  of  the  Lake  School,  let  me  say  something  of  the 
poetry  of  the  men  who  founded  it. 

1  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Pope,  Wordsworth. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  35 1 

LI. 

On  Samuel  Taylor  CoLERrocE. 

OF  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  it  is  always  to  be  said  with 
regret  that  he  did  not  accomplish  as  much  or  as 
good  work  as  the  world  had  a  right  to  expect  from  such  a 
man.  He  has  left  behind  him  comparatively  little  to  prove 
that  he  might  have  been  a  great  poet.  I  think  this  lack  of 
accomplishment  is  due  more  to  physical  causes  than  mental 
ones.  His  father,  a  delicate,  scholarly  man,  was  over  fifty 
when  Coleridge  was  born,  and  from  him  came  the  inheri- 
tance of  a  weak  body  and  nerves  sensitive  to  pain.  In  very 
early  childhood  too  much  reading  of  fanciful  stories  filled 
Coleridge's  brain  with  visions  of  spectres,  and  gave  him  a 
tendency  to  mope  and  dream.  He  was  sent  early  to  school, 
and  was  only  ten  when  he  went  to  Christ's  Hospital,  the 
famous  Bluecoat  School,  where  he  gives,  in  one  of  his 
letters,  this  touching  picture  of  his  privations :  — 

"  Our  diet  was  very  scanty,  —  every  morning  a  bit  of  dry 
bread  and  some  bad  small-beer ;  every  evening  a  larger  piece 
of  bread,  and  cheese  or  butter,  whichever  we  liked.  For  dinner 
on  Sunday,  boiled  beef  and  broth  ;  Monday,  bread  and  butter, 
and  milk  and  water;  Tuesday,  roast  mutton;  Wednesday,  bread 
and  butter,  and  rice  and  milk ;  Thursday,  boiled  beef  and  broth  ; 
Friday,  boiled  mutton  and  broth;  Saturday,  bread  and  butter, 
and  peas  porridge.  Our  food  was  portioned,  and,  excepting  on 
Wednesday,  I  never  had  enough.  Our  appetites  were  damped, 
never  satisfied;  and  we  had  no  vegetables." 

In  another  letter  he  says,  — 

"  Conceive  what  I  must  have  been  at  fourteen.  I  was  in  a 
continual  low  fever ;  my  whole  being  was,  with  eyes  closed  to 
every  object  of  present  sense,  to  crumple  myself  up  in  a  sunny 
corner,  and  read,  read,  read,  —  fancy  myself,  on  Robinson 
Crusoe's  island,  finding  a  mountain  of  plum-cake,  and  eating 
a  room  for  myself,  and  then  eating  it  into  the  shape  of  chairs 
and  tables,  hunger  and  fancy." 


352  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

The  penalty  he  had  to  pay  for  such  an  unwholesome  and 
half-starved  childhood  appears  early  in  Coleridge's  life.  He 
was  hardly  twenty-three  when  fits  of  torturing  neuralgia 
seized  him,  for  which  he  began  to  take  opium,  beginning 
with  light  doses,  and  increasing  them  till  they  grew  into 
a  habit  of  opium-eating  which  held  him  for  years  in  its 
bonds,  and  was  no  doubt  the  cause  that  so  many  of  his 
poetic  designs  were  not  carried  out.  We  feel  that  if  he 
had  had  the  painstaking  industry  of  Wordsworth,  he  too 
might  have  realized  some  of  those  glorious  plans  for  poetry 
with  which  he  fired  the  minds  of  his  friend  when  they  were 
wandering  together  over  the  fields  and  along  the  brooks  of 
Somerset.  As  it  is,  Wordsworth  took  the  place  at  the  head 
of  the  school  which  Coleridge  more  than  any  other  inspired. 
In  literature  we  see  Coleridge  as  one  of  the  powers  standing 
behind  those  who  climb  to  the  throne. 

The  Lyrical  Ballads  had  been  planned  by  the  two  poets 
to  consist  of  two  kinds  of  poetry  :  in  one,  the  incidents 
were  to  be  of  a  supernatural,  imaginative  kind ;  the  other 
was  to  be  on  subjects  drawn  from  ordinary  life,  such  inci- 
dents and  characters  as  are  to  be  found  in  any  village.  It 
was  arranged  that  Coleridge  should  take  the  supernatural, 
and  Wordsworth  the  simple  subjects.  They  wanflered  about 
the  fields  and  lanes  of  Somersetshire,  following  the  course 
of  woodland  brooks,  laying  their  poetical  plans.  Already 
their  radical  opinions,  their  former  sympathy  with  the 
French  Revolution,  had  come  to  the  ears  of  friends  of  the 
government,  and  a  spy  was  sent  down  to  watch  these  young 
men,  who,  strolling  about,  note-book  and  pencil  in  hand, 
were  suspected  of  mapping  out  the  land  to  give  it  to  foreign 
enemies.  But  although  the  spy  listened  closely,  he  could 
hear  nothing  but  a  great  deal  of  talk  about  a  certain 
Spynosy,  which  the  detective,  who  was  blessed  with  an 
ample  organ  of  smell,  supposed  was  a  name  given  to  him. 
This  was  all  the  treason  he  could  report  on  his  return 
to  London.  The  two  friends  had  already  lost  their  ardor 
for  republicanism  and  the  French  Revolution,  and  were 
busy  discussing  German  philosophy ;  and  it  was  the  great 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  353 

Spinoza  whose  name  the  detective  had  taken  to  mean 
himself. 

From  what  I  have  said  of  Coleridge's  habits  of  work,  you 
will  not  be  surprised  to  find  that  when  the  Lyrical  Ballads 
were  to  go  to  press,  and  Wordsworth  had  twenty-two  poems 
ready,  Coleridge  had  only  the  Aticient  Mariner  and  a  part 
of  the  weird  poem  of  Christabel,  which  was  never  finished. 
Hazlitt  says  that  the  Ancient  Mariner  is  the  only  one  of 
Coleridge's  poems  which  he  should  like  to  put  into  any 
person's  hands  whom  he  wished  to  impress  favorably  with 
his  great  powers.  No  doubt  he  is  right ;  and  this  one  poem 
is  great  enough  for  one  reputation.  It  is  a  unique  poem 
in  our  literature ;  and  to  those  who  feel  its  weird  fascination 
it  exercises  a  sway  over  the  imagination  which  very  few 
poems  in  our  language  can    exercise. 

Christabel  remains  a  fragment,  although  Coleridge  in- 
tended to  finish  it.  He  added  a  second  part  to  it  after 
it  was  first  published,  of  which  he  said :  "  As  in  my 
first  part  I  had  the  whole  present  to  my  mind,  with  the 
wholeness  no  less  than  the  loveliness  of  a  vision,  I  trust 
that  I  shall  be  yet  able  to  embody  in  verse  the  three  parts 
yet  to  come."  It  is  characteristic  of  Coleridge  that  the 
mood  for  which  he  waited  never  came,  and  that  to  the  last 
we  have  only  the  fragment.  The  poem  of  Genevieve,  or 
Love,  was  written  as  an  introduction  to  a  longer  poem, 
which  was  planned,  but  never  written.  It  is,  however,  com- 
plete in  itself,  an  exquisite  little  love-story  in  verse,  and  I 
quote  it  entire  : — 

LOVE. 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour 
When,  midway  on  the  mount,  I  lay 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 
23 


354  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene. 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve  1 

She  leaned  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight ; 
She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope  !  my  joy  !  my  Genevieve  I 
She  loves  me  best  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story,  — 
An  old,  rude  song  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
For  well  she  knew  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand, 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  lady  of  the  land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined  ;  and  ah  I 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace  ; 
And  she  forgave  me  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face. 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  knight, 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  355 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  fiend, 
This  miserable  knight ! 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  leaped  amid  a  murderous  band, 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  lady  of  the  land ; 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasped  his  knees. 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain, 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain ; 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave, 
And  how  his  madness  went  away. 
When  on  the  yellow  forest  leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay  ; 

His  dying  words  —     But  when  I  reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity  ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve,  — 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  long ! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blushed  with  love  and  virgin  shame; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved ;  she  stept  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept ; 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye. 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms. 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace  ; 
Then,  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 


356  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Twas  partly  love,  and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  't  was  a  bashful  art, 
That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride  ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  bride. 

Coleridge  wrote  the  dramatic  poems  Remorse,  Zapolya, 
and  the  Fall  of  Robespierre.  His  finest  dramatic  work  was 
in  the  translation  of  Schiller's  \Vallenstei71,  which  is  so 
well  done  that  it  has  the  value  of  an  original  drama  in 
English. 

Of  all  the  Lake  School,  Coleridge  seems  to  me  to  have 
been  most  of  a  poet  by  nature.  "  Logician  !  Metaphysi- 
cian !  Bard  !  "  as  his  friend  Charles  Lamb  addresses  him,  I 
can  hardly  limit  my  conception  of  what  he  might  have 
been  if,  freed  from  the  bondage  of  opium,  he  had  only  had 
the  power  of  patient,  persistent  work  in  one  direction.  But 
it  is  work  and  patience  against  the  world  ;  and  without  these, 
allied  to  genius,  even  genius  itself  can  give  nothing  to  the 
future. 


LII. 

On  William  Wordsworth  and  Robert  Southey. 

NEVER  was  the  judgment  of  the  critics  more  wholly 
overturned  than  in  the  case  of  William  Wordsworth. 
He  began  by  being  laughed  at ;  he  lived  to  see  his  name 
set  among  the  great  poets,  and  died  at  eighty  with  the  full 
knowledge  that  his  fame  was  waxing  greater  and  greater. 

No  doubt  he  was  helped,  even  in  his  darkest  hour,  by 
his  belief  in  himself.  He  set  out  early  in  life  to  be  a  great 
poet ;  he  adopted  it  as  a  sacred  profession,  — one  for  which 
Nature  had  chosen  him.  He  had  fixed  ideas  about  subjects 
for  poetry,  and  the  way  these  subjects  should  be  handled. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  357 

It  did  not  disturb  him  that  his  ideas  were  difierent  from 
the  poets  who  had  come  before  him.  It  did  not  discourage 
him  that  his  first  poems  were  laughed  at.  There  never  was 
a  poet  who  started  with  a  clearer  sense  of  what  he  meant 
to  do  as  a  poet,  with  a  higher  appreciation  of  his  calling, 
or  with  a  fuller  belief  in  his  own  powers.  This  made  it 
easy  for  him  to  wait  till  the  world  could  see  what  he 
saw,  and  he  waited  without  anxiety  or  trouble  about  the 
result. 

Fortunately  he  was  iii  the  right  path.  He  had  chosen  to 
be  the  poet  of  humanity;  all  that  he  wrote  and  felt  was 
in  harmony  with  the  thought  and  feeling  of  the  new 
age.  Thus  he  could  not  speak  far  wide  of  his  mark,  and 
sooner  or  later  he  was  sure  to  reach  that  heart  to  which  he 
spoke. 

His  faults  —  and  I  think  his  best  lover  will  admit  faults  in 
him  —  come  from  some  of  the  very  causes  that  make  him 
great.  Believing  firmly  in  himself  as  a  poet,  working  upon 
a  theory  which  was  exact  and  proportioned  in  his  own  mind, 
there  is  often  something  a  little  business-like  in  his  manner 
as  a  poet.  He  finds  poetical  capital  in  all  things  :  a  tour 
on  the  Continent,  a  mountain  ascent,  a  walk  in  the  garden, 
—  all  furnish  him  song  or  sonnet.  Having  made  up  his 
mind  that  the  natural,  simple  scenes  of  human  life  are  the 
grandest  themes  for  poetry,  he  finds  nothing  too  trivial,  and 
he  sometimes  tries  to  exalt  things  that  cannot  be  lifted 
from  the  region  of  commonplace.  It  is  well  for  genius 
when  it  is  not  moody,  and  can  work  patiently ;  but  we  do 
not  want  to  make  it  a  common  draught-horse. 

I  am  sure  that,  with  the  best  disposition  to  admire 
Wordsworth,  the  reader  with  a  strong  imagination  will  find 
him  an  unequal  poet.  After  he  has  carried  you  away  up 
with  a  flight  like  an  eagle,  he  drops  you  like  a  stone.  In 
reading  his  long  poems  you  are  constantly  dropped  thus. 
The  divine  fire  in  the  poet  never  quite  goes  out ;  that  spirit 
which  in  youth  whirled  him  about  in  such  ardor  of  enthu- 
siasm for  liberty,  equality,  and  fraternity,  controls  him  in 
nobler  fashion  as  he  grows  older  and  calmer ;  but  with  all 


358  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

this  there   is  a   prosaic   stratum  in   him,    Uke    underlying 
granite,  which  will  crop  out. 

Thus,  those  who  laughed  at  the  Lyrical  Ballads  could 
always  find  reason  for  laughter.  Sometimes  the  simplicity 
of  these  tales  of  sorrow  or  pleasure  win  the  heart,  but  some- 
times they  touch  the  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  The  long 
ballad  called  Peter  Bell  contains  some  beautiful  lines. 
What  a  beautiful  passage  this  is,  which  describes  Peter  Bell's 
dulness  to  all  the  sweet  inlluenccs  of  Nature  :  — 

"  He  roved  among  the  vales  and  streams 

In  the  green  wood  and  hollow  dell ; 
They  were  his  dwellings  night  and  day, 
But  Nature  ne'er  could  find  the  way 

Into  the  heart  of  Peter  Bell. 

"In  vain,  through  every  changeful  year, 

Did  Nature  lead  him  as  before  ; 

A  primrose  by  a  river's  brim 

A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 
And  it  was  nothing  more. 

"  In  vain  through  water,  earth,  and  air 
The  soul  of  hapjiy  sound  was  spread, 
When  Peter,  on  some  April  morn. 
Beneath  the  broom  and  budding  thorn, 
Made  the  warm  earth  his  lazy  bed. 

"  At  noon,  when  by  the  forest's  edge 
He  lay  beneath  the  branches  high, 

The  soft  blue  sky  did  never  melt 

Into  his  heart,  he  never  felt 
The  witchery  of  the  soft  blue  sky." 

But  to  make  the  chief  incident  of  this  poem  the  suffer- 
ings of  a  jackass,  is  rather  a  dangerous  experiment,  even 
with  readers  of  a  very  humane  disposition.  Here  is  a 
stanza  or  two  where  Peter  has  beaten  the  poor  beast  till  it 
falls  exhausted  : — 

"  As  gently  on  his  side  he  fell, 
And  by  the  river's  brink  did  lie  ; 

And  while  he  lay  like  one  that  mourned, 

The  patient  beast  on  Peter  turned 
A  shining  hazel  eye. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  359 

"  'T  was  but  one  mild,  reproachful  look, 
A  look  more  tender  than  severe  ; 

And  straight  in  sorrow,  not  in  dread. 

He  turned  the  eyeball  in  his  head 
Towards  the  smooth  river  deep  and  clear. 

"  Upon  the  beast  the  sapling  rings, 
His  lank  sides  heaved,  his  limbs  they  stirred; 
He  gave  a  groan,  and  then  another. 
Of  that  which  went  before  the  brother  ; 
And  then  he  gave  a  third." 

Now  this  rhyming,  which  lasts  through  twenty  stanzas,  is 
not  poetry,  although  it  is  very  good  humanity. 

Wordsworth's  epic  poem,  The  Excursion,  has  the  same 
fault  of  inequality.  But  it  is  so  magnificent  in  its  scope,  so 
noble  in  its  flights,  that  one  skips  the  prosy  places,  almost 
unheeding  them.  Here  at  last  was  a  grand  epic  which  did 
not  celebrate  war,  nor  the  deeds  of  Homeric  heroes  ;  which 
did  not  dwell  in  realms  peopled  by  imaginary  creatures ; 
which  neither  soared  to  heaven  nor  dived  to  hell.  In  The 
Excursion  the  poet  led  into  fields  and  villages,  among  the 
humblest  abodes  of  men,  learning  lessons  of  human  brother- 
hood in  his  course. 

Wordsworth's  shorter  poems,  many  of  them,  are  free 
from  any  of  the  faults  I  have  hinted  at.  Some  are  nearly 
perfect ;  his  sonnets,  many  of  them,  sound  as  if  they  had 
come  from  the  bottom  of  the  human  heart,  —  as  this,  which 
he  writes  on  a  view  of  London  at  sunrise  :  — 

"Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair  : 
Dull  would  he  be  of  sou)  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty: 
This  city  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning:  silent,  bare. 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  tlie  fields  and  to  the  sky, 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep, 
In  his  first  splendor,  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 
Ne'er  saw  T,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep. 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will ; 
Dear  God  !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep, 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still." 


36o  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

A  fit  tribute  to  Milton  was  this  sonnet  from  Wordsworth : 

"Milton,  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour; 
England  hath  need  of  thee ;  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters  ;  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men. 
Oh,  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again, 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 
Thy  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt  apart ; 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea; 
Pure  as  the  naked  heaven,  majestic,  free, 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 
In  cheerful  godliness  ;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay." 

Many  of  his  short  songs  have  the  same  purity  and  gran- 
deur as  these  sonnets.  And  the  simplest  subjects, — a 
flower,  a  bird,  an  incident  of  humble  life,  —  no  one  else  has 
treated  such  with  the  sympathy  Wordsworth  shows. 

And  what  shall  I  say  of  the  ode.  Intimations  of  Immor- 
tality, which  is  enough  for  any  one  poet  to  have  written? 
This,  in  my  mind,  both  in  form  and  matter,  is  to  be  set  far 
above  that  ode  of  Dryden's  which  he  calls  the  best  in  the 
language  :  — 

"  There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  has  been  of  yore ;  — 
Turn  vvhereso'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen,  I  now  can  see  no  more. 

"Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting: 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star. 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

And  comet h  from  afar  ; 
Not  in  entire  forgetfulncss, 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory,  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home. 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy  I 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  361 

"  Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 
Upon  the  growing  boy, 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, — 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy ; 
The  youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest, 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

"  Oh,  joy  !  that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live, 
That  Nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive  ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benedictions,  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  more  worthy  to  be  blest,  — 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast; 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings  ; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts,  before  which  our  moral  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised  : 
But  for  those  first  affections. 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may. 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing, 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  silence  ;  truths  that  wake 

To  perish  never ; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor, 

Nor  man  nor  boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather. 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither; 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 


362  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  ever  more." 

A  recent  English  philosopher,  John  Stuart  Mill,  says  that 
in  a  period  of  great  depression  he  tried  poetry  as  a  resource, 
and  found  most  of  all  a  balm  and  healing  in  Wordsworth. 
He  afterwards  says  he  believes  Wordsworth  to  be  the  true 
poet  of  unpoetic  natures,  —  for  those  of  quiet,  thoughtful 
tastes,  without  much  cultivation  of  the  imagination  or  the 
emotions. 

Matthew  Arnold,  a  modern  critic  and  poet  too, 
exalts  Wordsworth  much  higher  than  Mill  did.  I  am, 
myself,  inclined  to  think  that  ^^'ordsworth  is  not  the 
poet  for  youth.  One  grows  to  love  him.  The  ardor  and 
fiery  imagination  of  youth  is  rarely  satisfied  with  him  ;  he 
chimes  in  with  the  thoughts  and  aspirations  of  a  maturer 
age. 

Robert  Southey,  who  is  generally  classed  as  the  third  in 
this  trio  of  poets,  hardly  followed  the  theory  of  the  Lake 
School  in  his  choice  of  subjects,  for  they  do  not,  as  a  rule, 
keep  within  the  common  interests  of  human  life.  His  sub- 
jects are  largely  supernatural.  His  poem  of  Roderick  is  an 
old  Gothic  legend  ;  Madoc  was  taken  from  British  history ; 
Thalaba  is  an  Arabian  tale ;  and  Kchama  is  Hindoo  in 
origin.  Even  his  shorter  poems,  many  of  them  tales  told  in 
verse,  have  a  weird  element  which  is  more  in  keeping  with 
the  Ancient  Mariner  than  anything  \\' ordsworth  wrote.  I 
quote  one  short  story  in  verse  from  Southey  for  the  touch 
of  humor  in  it,  which  gives  variety  to  my  Talk.  It  is  not 
specially  in  illustration  of  Southey's  style  ;  that  you  must 
study  in  his  long  poems,  Thalaba  or  Roderick.  This  is  a 
simple  ballad,  called  — 

THE  WELL  OF  ST.    KEYNE. 

A  well  there  is  in  the  west  country, 

And  a  clearer  one  never  was  seen  ; 
There  is  not  a  wife  in  the  west  country 

But  has  heard  of  the  well  of  St.  Keyne. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  363 

An  oak  and  an  elm  tree  stand  beside, 

And  behind  does  an  ash-tree  grow, 
And  a  willow  from  the  bank  above 

Droops  to  the  water  below. 

A  traveller  came  to  the  well  of  St.  Keyne, 

Joyfully  he  drew  nigh, 
For  from  cock-crow  he  had  been  travelling. 

And  there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky. 

He  drank  of  the  water  so  cool  and  clear, 

For  thirsty  and  hot  was  he, 
And  he  sat  down  upon  the  bank, 

Under  the  willow-tree. 

There  came  a  man  from  a  house  hard  by, 

At  the  well  to  fill  his  pail ; 
On  the  well-side  he  rested  it, 

And  he  bade  the  stranger  hail. 

"Now,  art  thou  a  bachelor,  stranger  ?  "  quoth  he, 

"  For  an  if  thou  hast  a  wife, 
The  happiest  draught  thou  hast  drunk  this  day 

That  ever  thou  didst  in  thy  life." 

"  Or  has  thy  good  woman,  if  one  thou  hast. 

Ever  here  in  Cornwall  been  t 
For  an  if  she  have,  I  '11  venture  my  life. 

She  has  drunk  of  the  well  of  St.  Keyne." 

"  I  have  left  a  good  woman  who  never  was  here," 

The  stranger  he  made  reply  ; 
"But  that  my  draught  should  be  the  better  for  that, 

I  pray  you  answer  me  why." 

"  St.  Keyne,"  quoth  the  Cornishman,  "  many  a  time 

Drank  of  this  crystal  well ; 
And  before  the  angel  summoned  her, 

She  laid  on  the  water  a  spell. 

"If  the  husband,  of  this  gifted  well 

Should  drink  before  his  wife, 
A  happy  man  thenceforth  is  he, 

For  he  shall  be  master  for  life. 

"  But  if  the  wife  should  drink  of  it  first, 

God  help  the  husband  then  !  " 
The  stranger  stooped  to  the  well  of  St.  Keyne, 

And  drank  of  the  water  again. 


364  FAMILIAR   TALKS 

"  You  drank  of  the  well,  I  warrant,  betimes," 

He  to  the  Cornishman  said  ; 
But  the  Cornishman  smiled  as  the  stranger  spake, 

And  sheepishly  shook  his  head. 

"  I  hastened,  as  soon  as  the  wedding  was  done, 

And  left  my  wife  in  the  porch  ; 
But  i'  faith  she  had  been  wiser  than  me, 

For  she  took  a  bottle  to  church." 

I/ike  Wordsworth,  Southey  was  very  industrious ;  he 
worked  in  a  great  many  fields,  —  history,  biography,  essays, 
and  fiction.  At  the  outset  of  his  literary  career  he  was 
poor,  but  by  his  work  accumulated  a  fair  fortune  and  col- 
lected a  fine  library.  He  was  as  much  a  radical  as  Cole- 
ridge had  been  in  youth,  but  became  more  conservative 
than  either  of  his  friends,  and  bitterly  criticised  any  differ- 
ence from  the  opinions  he  learned  to  hold. 

It  is  to  be  said  of  the  Lake  Poets  that  they  were  all  men 
of  pure  lives ;  strict  adherents  to  principle,  whichever  way 
the  vane  of  opinion  was  set ;  good  husbands,  fathers,  and 
friends.  In  bringing  back  some  of  the  virtues  of  an  early 
age  of  poetry,  they  brought  back  none  of  the  vices  of  that 
day,  and  nothing  in  their  career  marks  the  literary  man  as 
a  Bohemian  or  social  outlaw. 


LIII. 

On  Thomas  Campbell  and  Tom  Moore. 


J 


UST  about  the  time  the  Lake  Poets  were  making  their 

first  stir  in  the  world  of  books,   Thomas  Campbell, 

who  was  a  countryman  of  Robert  Burns,  first  ap- 
1777—1844 

peared  in  print.     He  was  a  youthful  poet,  —  only 

twenty-two,  —  and  his  poem,  T/ie  Pleasures  of  Hope,  was 
written  in  that  tiresome  old  rhyming  measure  used  so  con- 
tinually since  Dryden  and  Pope,  which  the  Lake  School  did 
so  much  towards  abolishing.  The  Pleasures  of  Hope  proved 
a  very  popular  poem,   however,  and  while  Wordsworth's 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  365 

poems   fell   dead   from    the    press,    Campbell's    sold    four 
editions  in  less  than  a  year. 

There  are  strong  passages  in  The  Pleasures  of  Hope, 
although,  as  a  whole,  I  think  it  dull  reading.  The  best 
lines  in  it  are  those  which  burn  with  generous  anger  against 
the  wrongs  Poland  had  suffered  when  divided  among  her 
oppressors  and  crushed  out  of  being  as  a  nation.  Camp- 
bell's best  poems  are  his  shorter  ones,  —  The  Mariners  of 
England,  Battle  of  the  Baltic,  Hohenli^iden,  The  Exile  of 
Erin,  and  the  like.  Every  schoolboy  knows  these,  as  well 
as  LochieVs  Warning,  O'  Connor's  Child,  and  Lord  Ullin's 
Daughter,  which  are  founded  on  old  stories  of  the  Border. 
In  these  shorter  songs  he  has  escaped  from  the  bonds  of 
that  see-saw  rhyme,  and  his  songs  and  ballads  are  full  of  spirit, 
with  a  ring  in  the  lines  which  is  hke  a  bugle-sound.  You 
can  hear  this  in  Ye  Mariners  of  England,  which  begins, — 

"Ye  mariners  of  England 
That  guard  our  native  seas, 
Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 
The  battle  and  the  breeze  ! 
Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 
To  match  another  foe, 
And  sweep  through  the  deep 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow  ; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow." 

Still  more  like  martial  music  is  The  Battle  of  the  Baltic  : 

"Of  Nelson  and  the  North, 
Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 
When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 
All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown. 
And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone; 
By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand 
In  a  bold,  determined  hand. 
And  the  prince  of  all  the  land 
Led  them  on. 

"  Like  leviathans  afloat 
Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine, 
While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 
On  the  lofty  British  line  : 


366  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime ; 
As  they  drifted  on  their  path 
There  was  silence  deep  as  death, 
And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 
For  a  time. 

"  But  the  might  of  England  flushed 
To  anticipate  the  scene  ; 
And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 
O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 
'  Hearts  of  oak  ! '  our  captains  cried,  when  each  gun 
From  its  adamantine  lips 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 
Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 

"  Again  !  again  !  again  I 
And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 
Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 
To  our  cheering  sent  us  back  ; 
Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom; 
Then  ceased,  —  and  all  is  wail 
As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail ; 
Or,  in  conflagration  pale, 
Light  the  gloom. 

"  Out  spoke  the  victor  then, 
As  he  hailed  them  o'er  the  wave  : 
'  Ye  are  brothers,  ye  are  men  I 
And  we  conquer  but  to  save  ! 
So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring; 
But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet. 
With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 
And  make  submission  meet 
To  our  King.' 

"Then  Denmark  blessed  our  chief 
That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose; 
And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 
From  her  people  wildly  rose 
As  Death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day; 
While  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 
O'er  a  wide  and  woful  sight, 
Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 
Died  away. 

"Now  joy,  Old  England,  raise! 
For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  367 

By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 

Whilst  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light; 

And  yet,  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 

Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep 

Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 

By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 

Elsinore  ! " 

Such  pieces  as  these,  vigorous  and  dramatic,  are  admir- 
ably adapted  for  recitation  ;  and  hence  many  of  Campbell's 
minor  poems  have  had  wide  circulation  in  reading-books 
and  collections  of  poetry. 

After  publishing  a  volume  of  short  poems,  Campbell 
wrote  his  Gertrude  of  Wyoming,  a  Tale  of  Pennsylvania. 
It  was  written  on  a  tragedy  of  the  war  of  the  American 
Revolution,  in  which  a  savage  band,  more  than  half  of 
them  Indians,  swept  down  on  a  little  settlement  in  the 
valley  of  the  Wyoming,  and  massacred  the  villagers,  men, 
women,  and  babes,  without  mercy.  It  was  a  shameful 
and  bloodthirsty  murder,  and  Campbell,  whose  sympathies 
were  always  passionately  on  the  side  of  humanity,  put  his 
heart  into  the  poem.  The  heroine  is  Gertrude,  who,  mur- 
dered by  the  enemy,  dies  in  her  husband's  arms.  You  will 
see  that  the  poem  is  in  the  Spenserian  measure :  — 

"  A  scene  of  death !  where  fires  beneath  the  sun, 
And  blended  arms  and  white  pavilions  glow; 
And  for  the  business  of  destruction  done. 
Its  requiem  the  war-horn  seemed  to  blow ; 
There,  sad  spectatress  of  her  country's  woe, 
The  lovely  Gertrude,  safe  from  present  harm, 
Had  laid  her  cheek  and  clasped  her  hands  of  snovr 
On  Waldegravc's  shoulder,  half  within  his  arm 
Enclosed,  that  felt  her  heart  and  hushed  its  wild  alarm. 

"But  short  that  contemplation,  — sad  and  short 
The  pause  to  bid  each  much-loved  scene  adieu. 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  the  fort, 
Where  friendly  swords  were  drawn  and  banners  flew ; 
Ah  !  who  could  deem  that  foot  of  Indian  crew 
Was  near  ?  yet  there,  with  lust  of  murderous  deeds, 
Gleamed,  like  a  basilisk  from  woods  in  view, 
The  ambushed  foeman's  eye ;   his  volley  speeds, 

And  Albert,  Albert  falls !  the  dear  old  father  bleeds  I 


368  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

"And,  tranced  in  giddy  horror,  Gertrude  swooned; 
Yet  while  she  clasps  him  lifeless  to  her  zone, 
Say,  burst  they  borrowed  from  her  father's  wound 
These  drops  ?  O  God,  the  lilc-blood  is  her  own ! 
And  faltering  on  her  Waldegrave's  bosom  thrown, 
'  Weep  not,  O  love  ! '  she  cries,  '  to  see  me  bleed; 
Thee,  Gertrude's  sad  survivor,  thee  alone 
Heaven's  peace  commiserate !  for  scarce  I  heed 
These  wounds;  yet  thee  to  leave  is  death,  is  death  indeed! 

" '  Clasp  me  a  little  longer  on  the  brink 
Of  fate,  while  I  can  feel  thy  dear  caress ; 
And  when  this  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat,  oh,  think, 
And  let  it  mitigate  thy  woe's  excess, 
That  thou  hast  been  to  me  all  tenderness. 
And  friend  to  more  than  human  friendship  just 
Oh  I  by  that  retrospect  of  happiness. 
And  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust, 
God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs  —  when  I  am  laid  in  dust  I 

"*  Go,  Henry,  go  not  back  when  I  depart,  — 

The  scene  thy  bursting  tears  too  deep  will  move,  — 

Where  my  dear  father  took  thee  to  his  heart, 

And  Gertrude  thought  it  ecstasy  to  rove 

With  thee,  as  with  an  angel,  through  the  grove 

Of  peace,  imagining  her  lot  was  cast 

In  heaven  ;  for  ours  was  not  like  earthly  love. 

And  must  this  parting  be  our  very  last  ? 
No !  I  shall  love  thee  still,  when  death  itself  is  past.* 

"Hushed  were  his  Gertrude's  lips,  but  still  their  bland 

And  beautiful  expression  seemed  to  melt 

With  love  that  could  not  die;  and  still  his  hand 

She  presses  to  the  heart  no  more  that  felt. 

Ah,  heart  !  where  once  each  fond  affection  dwelt. 

And  features  yet  that  spoke  a  soul  more  fair. 

Mute,  gazing,  agonizing  as  he  knelt, 

Of  them  that  stood  encircling  his  despair 
He  heard  some  friendly  words,  but  knew  not  what  they  were." 

Campbell  settled  in  Sydenham,  and  there  edited  for  ten 
years  The  Metropolitan  Maj^azine,  in  which  appeared  many 
of  his  own  poems.  Another  notable  contributor  to  this  re- 
view in  its  later  days  was  a  poet  who  had  risen  to  fame  just 

about   the  same  time   as    Campbell.      This   was 
1779—1852 

Thomas  Moore,  a  native  of  Ireland,  whose  Irish 

Melodies,  sung  by  himself  to  the  airs  of  his  own  country, 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  369 

were  for  many  years  the  delight  of  fashionable  circles  in 
London. 

There  is  something  very  winning  about  Tom  Moore,  al- 
though he  had  a  great  many  vanities,  and  more  faults  than 
some  men  who  are  not  so  agreeable.  He  was  always 
warm-hearted  and  affectionate ;  through  all  changes  of 
scenes  or  fortune  he  never  neglected  his  good  mother  in 
Ireland,  nor  failed  in  the  midst  of  all  his  social  triumphs 
to  write  to  her  letters  as  full  of  tenderness  and  spirits  as 
if  he  were  still  a  boy  at  her  knee.  He  was  always  the 
loving  husband  of  his  "  dearest  Bessie,"  who  was  herself 
the  most  devoted  and  unselfish  of  wives ;  and  these  virtues 
cover  much  of  the  light-hearted  selfishness  and  the  eager 
vanity  with  which  he  sought  the  society  of  the  rich  and 
great,  who  petted  him  for  his  charming  manners  and 
accomplishments. 

Moore  was  born  in  Dublin  with  no  poetical  surroundings, 
for  his  parents  kept  a  grocery  and  liquor  shop  ;  but  he  took  to 
poetry  by  instinct,  and  began  to  rhyme  as  early  as  Pope  did. 
At  nineteen  he  went  to  London  with  some  translations  from 
the  Greek  poet  Anacreon,  which  he  published  by  subscription 
and  dedicated  to  the  Prince  of  Wales.  These  made  him 
at  once  known  as  a  poet.  A  few  years  later  he  received 
an  appointment  of  some  kind  at  the  Bermuda  Islands,  and 
went  abroad,  making  a  tour  on  his  return  through  the 
United  States  and  Canada.  He  was  gone  in  all  fourteen 
months,  and  published  his  poems  soon  after  his  return. 
Some  of  his  American  poems  are  among  his  best,  —  The 
Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swa??ip  and  A  Canadian  Boat-Song. 

He  was  a  little  over  thirty  when  he  married  his  dear 
Bessy,  and  settled  down  in  Wiltshire,  far  enough  from 
London  so  that  he  could  not  be  diverted  from  work  by  the 
constant  call  of  society.  Here  he  arranged  with  a  pub- 
lisher to  furnish  the  Irish  Melodies  at  five  hundred  pounds 
a  year.  Thus  these  songs,  which  of  all  literary  produc- 
tions sound  the  most  spontaneous,  were  really  made  to 
order.  The  Mrlodies  were  written  to  national  airs  of  Ire- 
land, Moore  writing  the  verses  and  adapting  the  music  to 

24 


370 


FAMILIAR    TALKS 


them.  His  own  feeling  and  taste  for  music  helped  him, 
and  one  of  their  great  charms  was  in  the  perfect  fitness  of 
words  to  music  \  it  must  have  been  a  treat  to  hear  Moore 
sing  them.  Campbell  said  one  could  never  appreciate 
Moore's  Melodies  till  he  had  heard  Moore  sing  them. 
They  were  sung  everywhere,  from  the  palaces  of  the  Eng- 
lish aristocracy  to  the  highways  of  Ireland,  where  even  the 
Irish  boy  who  drove  the  jaunting-car  knew  the  best  of  them 
by  heart.  Moore  was  feted  and  caressed  by  the  great  peo- 
ple in  London,  and  wherever  he  went  the  doors  of  the  best 
houses  swung  open  for  him.  Holland  House,  the  home  of 
Lord  and  Lady  Holland,  which  for  so  many  years  was  the 
headquarters  of  literary  men,  artists,  and  agreeable  people 
of  all  sorts,  was  one  of  Moore's  favorite  visiting  places  in 
London,  and  the  walls  of  its  drawing-rooms  resounded 
again  and  again  to  his  voice  as  he  sung  his  favorite  songs. 

The  Irish  Melodies  are  not  all  patriotic  in  sentiment, 
although  many  of  the  best  are  so.  They  are  inspired  by 
various  motives,  and  among  them  are  love-songs,  drinking- 
songs,  songs  of  country,  songs  of  melancholy,  and  songs  of 
Nature.  The  Harp  that  once  through  Tara's  Halls ;  Be- 
lieve me,  if  all  those  Endearing  Young  Charms  ;  Oh,  blame 
not  the  Bard,  are  as  familiar  as  household  words  wherever 
our  language  is  sung.  The  following  seems  to  me  very 
characteristic  in  its  mixture  of  good-fellowship  and  real 
feeling,  which  were  a  part  of  Moore's  own  nature  :  — 

*  Farewell  !  but  whenever  you  welcome  the  hour 
That  awakens  the  night-song  of  mirth  in  your  bower, 
Then  think  of  the  friend  who  once  welcomed  it  too, 
And  forgot  his  own  griefs  to  be  happy  with  vou. 
His  griefs  may  return,  not  a  hope  may  remain 
0£  the  few  that  have  brightened  his  pathway  of  pain  ; 
But  he  ne'er  will  forget  the  short  vision  that  threw 
Its  enchantment  around  him  while  lingering  with  you. 

"And  still  on  that  evening,  when  pleasure  fills  up 
To  the  highest  top  sparkle  each  heart  and  each  cup, 
Where'er  my  path  lies,  be  it  gloomy  or  bright. 
My  soul,  happy  friends,  siiall  be  with  you  that  night. 
Shall  join  in  your  revels,  your  sports,  and  your  wiles, 
And  return  to  me  beaming  all  o'er  with  your  smiles, 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  yj\ 

Too  blest  if  it  tells  me  that  'mid  the  gay  cheer 

Some  kind  voice  had  murmured,  '  I  wish  he  were  here  I ' 

"  Let  Fate  do  her  worst ;  there  are  relics  of  joy, 
Bright  dreams  of  the  past,  which  she  cannot  destroy, 
Which  come  in  the  night-time  of  sorrow  and  care. 
And  bring  back  the  features  that  joy  used  to  wear. 
Long,  long,  be  my  heart  with  such  memories  filled. 
Like  the  vase  in  which  roses  have  once  been  distilled; 
You  may  break,  you  may  shatter,  the  vase  if  you  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it  still." 

Another  song,  to  his  Country's  Harp,  is  exquisite  in  its 
expression  of  the  patriotic  feehng  which  forms  the  basis  of 
the  Melodies :  — 

"Dear  Harp  of  my  Country !  in  darkness  I  found  thee, 
The  cold  chain  of  silence  had  hung  o'er  thee  long. 
When  proudly,  my  own  Island  Harp,  I  unbound  thee, 
And  gave  all  thy  chords  to  light,  freedom,  and  song! 
The  warm  lay  of  love,  and  the  light  note  of  gladness, 
Have  wakened  thy  fondest,  thy  liveliest  thrill ! 
But  so  oft  hast  thou  echoed  the  deep  sigh  of  sadness 
That  e'en  in  thy  mirth  it  will  steal  from  thee  still. 

"Dear  Harp  of  my  Country!  farewell  to  thy  numbers, 
This  sweet  wreath  of  song  is  the  last  we  shall  twine; 
Go,  sleep  with  the  sunshine  of  Fame  on  thy  slumbers, 
Till  touched  by  some  hand  less  unworthy  than  mine. 
If  the  pulse  of  the  patriot,  soldier,  or  lover 
Have  throbbed  at  our  lay,  't  is  thy  glory  alone ; 
It  was  but  the  wind,  passing  heedlessly  over. 
And  all  the  wild  sweetness  1  waked  was  thy  own." 

It  was  during  his  success  with  the  songs,  which  appeared 
in  numbers,  that  Moore  was  asked  to  write  an  Eastern 
poem,  —  a  kind  of  work  for  which  his  lavish  imagination  and 
tropical  style  was  very  well  fitted.  He  was  a  good  student 
as  well  as  poet,  and  studied  India  in  her  legends,  poetry, 
history,  and  in  the  accounts  of  travellers  who  had  journeyed 
thither.  The  result  was  Lalla  Rookh,  the  best  known  of 
his  long  poems.  It  consists  of  four  tales,  —  The  Veiled 
Prophet  of  Khorassan,  The  Fire-  Worshippers,  Paradise 
and  the  Peri,  and  The  Light  of  the  Harem,  —  woven  to- 
gether by  a  tissue  of  prose  which  tells  the  love-story  of  Za//a 
Rookh. 


372  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Even  in  a  subject  so  far  away  from  Ireland  as  this  poem 
of  the  East,  we  can  see  that  Moore's  national  feeling  was 
so  strong  that  he  was  always  most  of  a  poet  when  that 
feeling  was  free  to  speak.  In  The  Fire- Worshippers  he 
puts  his  feeling  for  his  own  country  into  the  guise  of 
sympathy  for  a  persecuted  race,  the  last  of  the  Persian 
Ghebers ;  and  we  can  see  that  Iran  ^  became  Erin  to  him, 
by  less  than  the  change  of  a  letter.  Thus,  of  all  the  tales, 
The  Fire-  Worshippers  has  the  most  poetic  fervor.  Let  us 
quote  a  few  passages  to  show  this :  — 

"  The  morn  has  risen  clear  and  calm, 

And  o'er  the  green  sea  palely  shines, 
Revealing  Bahrein's  groves  of  palm, 

And  lighting  Kishma's  amber  vines. 
Fresh  smell  the  shores  of  Araby, 

While  breezes  from  the  Indian  sea 
Blow  round  Selama's  sainted  cape, 

And  curl  the  shining  flood  beneath, 
Whose  waves  are  rich  with  many  a  grape 

And  cocoa-nut  and  flowery  wreath, 
Which  pious  seamen  as  they  passed 

Had  toward  that  holy  headland  cast, — 
Oblations  to  the  Genii  there, 
For  gentle  skies  and  breezes  fair  ! 
The  nightingale  now  bends  her  flight 
PVom  the  high  trees  where  all  the  night 
She  sung  so  sweet,  with  none  to  listen ; 
And  hides  her  from  the  morning  star 
Where  thickets  of  pomegranate  glisten 
In  the  clear  dawn,  — bespangled  o'er 
With  dew,  whose  night-drojjs  would  not  stain 
The  best  and  brighest  scimetar 
That  ever  youthful  sultan  wore. 
On  the  first  morning  of  his  reign. 

"And  see,  that  Sun  himself!  —  on  wings 
Of  glory  up  the  east  he  springs. 
Angel  of  light !  who  from  the  time 
Those  heavens  began  their  march  sublime, 
Hath  first  of  all  the  starry  choir 
Trod  in  his  Maker's  steps  of  fire. 
Where  are  the  days,  thou  wondrous  sphere, 
When  Iran,  like  a  sunflower,  turned 
To  meet  that  eye  where'er  it  burned? 

^  The  ancient  name  of  Persia. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURK. 

When  from  the  banks  of  Eendemeer 

To  the  nut-groves  of  Samarcand, 

Thy  temples  flamed  o'er  all  the  land,  — 

Where  are  they  ?    Ask  the  shades  of  them 

Who  on  Cadessia's  bloody  plains 

Saw  fierce  invaders  pluck  the  gem 

From  Iran's  broken  diadem. 

And  bind  her  ancient  faith  in  chains. 

And  the  poor  exile,  cast  alone 

On  foreign  shores,  unloved,  unknown. 

Beyond  the  Caspian's  iron  gates. 

Or  in  the  snowy  Mossian  mountains. 

Far  from  his  beauteous  land  of  dates, 

Her  jasmine  bovvers  and  sunny  fountains! 

Yet  happier  so  than  if  he  trod 

His  own  beloved  but  blighted  sod. 

Beneath  a  despot  stranger's  nod ! 

Oh,  he  would  rather  houseless  roam 

Where  freedom  and  his  God  may  lead, 

Than  be  the  sleekest  slave  at  home 

That  crouches  to  the  conqueror's  creed! 

Is  Iran's  pride  then  gone  forever, 

Quenched  with  the  flame  in  Mithra's  caves  ? 

No,  —  she  has  sons  that  never,  never, 

Will  stoop  to  be  the  Moslem's  slaves. 

While  heaven  has  light  or  earth  has  graves. 

Spirits  of  fire,  that  brood  not  long. 

But  flash  resentment  back  for  wrong, 

And  hearts  where  slow,  but  deep,  the  seeds 

Of  vengeance  ripen  into  deeds. 

Till  in  some  treacherous  hour  of  calm 

They  burst,  like  Zeilan's  giant  palm. 

Whose  buds  fly  open  with  a  sound 

That  shakes  the  pygmy  forests  round. 

"  Yea  Emir,  he  who  scaled  thy  tower  .  .  . 
Is  one  of  many,  brave  as  he, 
Who  loathe  thy  haughty  race  and  thee, 
Who,  though  they  know  the  strife  is  vain, 
Who,  though  they  know  the  riven  chain 
Snaps  but  to  enter  in  the  heart 
Of  him  who  rends  its  links  apart. 
Yet  dare  the  issue,  blest  to  be. 
Even  for  one  bleeding  moment,  free. 
And  die  in  pangs  of  liberty! 

"  Yet  here,  even  here,  a  sacred  band, 
Ay,  in  the  portal  of  that  land. 


373 


374  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Thou,  Arab,  dar'st  to  call  thine  own, 
Their  spears  across  thy  path  have  thrown; 
Here,  ere  the  winds  half  winged  thee  o'er, 
Rebellion  braved  thee  from  the  shore. 
Rebellion  !  foul,  dishonoring  word, 
Whose  wrongful  blight  so  oft  has  stained 
The  holiest  cause  that  tongue  or  sword 
Of  mortal  ever  lost  or  gained  ; 
How  many  a  spirit,  born  to  bless, 
Hath  sunk  beneath  that  withering  name 
Whom  but  a  day's,  an  hour's  success, 
Had  wafted  to  eternal  fame  !  " 

Moore  was  so  popular  in  his  own  time  that  it  is  not 
strange  there  has  been  a  change  in  the  feeHng  towards  him. 
There  is  a  disposition  nov/adays  to  think  of  him  only  as  a 
poet  of  light  fancies,  rather  fit  for  youth.  But  this  is  not 
altogether  just.  Besides  his  fancy  and  grace,  he  has  much 
genuine  feeling  whenever  his  heart  speaks,  and  his  verse  is 
so  musical  and  flowing  that  it  must  always  place  him  in  a 
high  rank  as  a  poet.  He  worked  conscientiously,  and  did 
a  great  deal  of  work.  Besides  many  poems  which  I  have 
not  mentioned,  he  wrote  several  prose  works  of  fiction  and 
biography,  and  kept  faithfully  his  own  Memoirs,  which  are 
very  entertaining  gossip  of  the  times. 


LIV. 

On  Sir  Walter  Scorr  and  Lord  Byron. 


I 


T  is  Walter  Scott  the   poet   of  whom   I  speak   here. 

His  work  as  novelist  I   shall  consider  later.     Scott  is 

the  first  poet  whose  name  meets  us  as  we  cross 
1771-1832 

the  threshold  of  our  own  century.     He  published 

the  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  in  1805.  His  first  literary 
work  was  a  translation  of  some  German  ballads,  and  a  col- 
lection of  ballads  entitled  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scotch  Border. 
He  was  always  very  fond  of  ballads,  and  it  is  thought  that 
much  reading  of  Percy's  Reliques  when  a  boy  tended  to 
make  him  a  poet. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  375 

The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  which  was  a  weird  sort  of 
story  in  rhyme  told  by  an  old  Border  minstrel,  made  Scott 
known  as  a  poet,  and  gained  him  admiring  readers  every- 
where. We  are  sure  that  the  critics  who  praised  it,  some 
of  them  the  very  men  who  had  abused  Coleridge  and 
Wordsworth,  never  would  have  seen  the  merit  of  Scott  so 
clearly  if  the  writings  of  the  Lake  School  had  not  opened 
their  minds  and  made  them  more  hospitable  to  what  was 
new.  In  that  half-finished  story  of  Christahcl,  which  Cole- 
ridge's mental  indolence  prevented  him  from  finishing, 
Scott  saw  how  effective  such  a  measure  might  be  made  in  a 
tale  in  verse,  and  set  his  Minstrel's  Lay  to  a  similar  tune. 

His  poems  followed  each  other  quickly,  —  Marmion, 
The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  The  Vision  of  Roderick,  and  others, 
—  till  about  181 7,  when  he  ceased  to  write  poetry.  He 
had  found  a  new  gift  in  himself,  and  it  is  as  Scott  the 
novelist  that  he  will  be  known  longest  and  best.  His  poetry 
is  vigorous,  always  pure  and  wholesome,  like  a  breeze  from 
his  own  Highlands.  He  is  best  in  strong  scenes,  in  battle 
descriptions,  or  in  rough  hand-to-hand  encounters  between 
sturdy  foes.  In  the  fight  between  Fitz-James  and  Roderick 
Dhu  in  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  or  the  description  of  the 
Battle  of  Bannockburn  in  The  Lord  of  the  Isles,  which  I 
give  you  here,  you  get  an  idea  of  his  strength. 


"  Now  onward  and  in  open  view 
The  countless  ranks  of  England  drew ; 
Dark,  rolling,  like  the  ocean  tide 
When  the  rough  west  hath  chafed  his  pride. 
And  his  deep  roar  sends  challenge  wide 

To  all  that  bars  his  way  t 
In  front  the  gallant  archers  trode, 
The  men-at-arms  behind  them  rode, 
And  midmost  of  their  phalanx  broad, 

The  monarch  held  his  sway. 
Beside  him  many  a  war-horse  fumes, 
Around  him  waves  a  sea  of  plumes, 
Where  many  a  knight  in  battle  known, 
And  some  who  spurs  had  first  braced  on. 
And  deemed  that  fight  should  see  them  won, 

King  Edward's  bests  obey. 


376  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

De  Argentine  attends  his  side, 
With  stout  De  Valence,  Tembroke's  pride,  ■ 
Selected  champions  from  the  train 
To  wait  upon  his  bridle-rein. 
Upon  the  Scottish  foe  he  gazed  : 
At  once,  before  his  sight  amazed, 
Sunk  banner,  sjiear,  and  shield. 
Each  \vea])on-point  is  downward  sent, 
Each  warrior  to  the  ground  is  bent. 
'The  rebels,  Argentine,  repent! 
For  pardon  they  have  kneeled.' 
'  Aye,  but  they  bend  to  other  powers, 
And  other  pardon  sue  than  ours. 
See  where  yon  barefoot  abbot  stands, 
And  blesses  them  with  lifted  hands. 
Upon  the  spot  where  they  have  kneeled, 
These  men  will  die  or  win  the  field.' 
'  Then  prove  we  if  they  die  or  win; 
Bid  Gloster's  earl  the  fight  begin.' 

"  Earl  Gilbert  waved  his  truncheon  high 
Just  as  the  Northern  ranks  arose,  — 
Signal  for  England's  archery 

To  halt  and  bend  their  bows. 
Then  stepped  each  yoeman  forth  apace. 
Glanced  at  the  intervening  space, 

And  raised  his  left  hand  high  ; 
To  the  right  ear  the  cords  they  bring, 
At  once  ten  thousand  bow-strings  ring. 

Ten  thousand  arrows  fly  ! 
Nor  paused  on  the  devoted  Scot 
The  ceaseless  fury  of  their  shot ; 

As  fiercely  and  as  fast 
Forth  whistling  came  the  gray-goose  wing 
As  the  wild  hailstones  pelt  and  ring 

Adown  December's  blast. 
Nor  mountain  targe  of  tough  bull-hide, 

Nor  lyowland  mail,  that  storm  may  bide. 
Woe!  woe!  to  Scotland's  bannered  pride, 

If  the  fell  shower  may  last ! 
Upon  the  right,  behind  the  wood. 
Each  by  his  steed  dismounted,  stood 

The  Scottish  chivalry. 
With  foot  in  stirrup,  hand  on  mane. 
Fierce  Edward  Bruce  can  scarce  restrain 
His  own  keen  heart,  his  eager  train, 
Until  the  archers  gained  the  plain. 

Then,  '  Mount,  ye  gallant  free  I  * 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERA  TURE.  ^J^ 

He  cried  ;  and  vaulting  from  the  ground, 
His  saddle  every  horseman  found. 
On  high  their  glittering  crests  they  toss, 
As  springs  the  wild-fire  from  the  moss  ; 
The  shield  hangs  down  on  every  breast, 
Each  ready  lance  is  in  the  rest, 

And  loud  shouts  Edward  Bruce  — 
*  Forth,  Marshal !  on  the  peasant  foe  ; 
We  '11  tame  the  terrors  of  their  bow, 

And  cut  the  bowstring  loose.' 

"  Then  spurs  were  dashed  in  chargers'  flanks, 
They  rushed  among  the  archer-ranks. 
No  spears  were  there  the  shock  to  let, 
No  stakes  to  turn  the  charge  were  set ; 
And  how  shall  yeoman's  armor  slight 
Stand  the  long  lance  and  mace  of  might  ? 
Or  what  may  their  short  swords  avail 
'Gainst  barbed  horse  and  shirt  of  mail? 
Amid  their  ranks  the  chargers  sprung, 
High  o'er  their  heads  the  weapons  swung ; 
And  shriek  and  groan  and  vengeful  shout 
Gave  note  of  triumph  and  of  rout ! 
Awhile,  with  stubborn  hardihood, 
The  English  hearts  the  strife  made  good  ; 
Borne  down  at  length  on  every  side, 
Compelled  to  flight,  they  scatter  wide. 
Let  stags  of  Sherwood  leap  for  glee. 
And  bound  the  deer  of  Dallom  Lee. 
The  broken  bows  of  Bannock's  shore 
Shall  in  the  greenwood  ring  no  more ! 
Round  Wakefield's  merry  maypole  now 
The  maids  may  twine  the  summer  bough. 
May  northward  look  with  longing  glance 
For  those  that  wont  to  lead  the  dance. 
For  the  blithe  archers  look  in  vain  ! 
Broken,  dispersed,  in  flight  o'erta'en, 
Pierced  through,  trod  down,  by  thousand  slain, 
They  cumber  Bannock's  bloody  plain." 

Scott  was  a  warm  patriot,  and  his  poems  have  constantly 
occurring  lines  which  speak  his  love  of  country,  —  his  dear 
native  Scotland.  You  all  must  know,  I  think,  those  familiar 
lines  beginning,  — 

"  Breathes  there  the  man  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 
'  This  is  my  own,  my  native  land .'  * " 


378  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

which  open  a  canto  of  the  first  of  his  long  poems,  The  Lay 
of  the  Last  Minstrel. 

Another  extract,  from  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  has  this 
address  to  his  country's  harp,  which  you  may  compare  with 
Moore's  song  to  the  harp  of  his  native  hind,  which  we  have 
before  read  :  — 

"  Harp  of  the  North,  farewell !     The  hills  grow  dark, 

On  i)urple  peaks  a  deejjer  shade  descending; 
In  twilight  copse  the  glow-worm  lights  her  spark, 

The  deer,  half-seen,  are  to  the  covert  wending. 
Resume  thy  wizard  elm!  the  fountain  lending, 

And  the  wild  breeze,  thy  wilder  minstrelsy ; 
Thy  numbers  sweet  with  Nature's  vespers  blending, 

With  distant  echo  from  the  fold  and  lea, 
And  herd-boy's  evening  pipe,  and  hum  of  housing  bee. 

"Yet,  once  again,  farewell,  thou  Minstrel  Ilarp  1 

Yet,  once  again,  forgive  my  feeble  sway, 
And  little  reck  I  of  the  censure  sharp 

May  idly  cavil  at  an  idle  lay. 
Much  have  I  owed  thy  strains  on  life's  long  way, 

Through  secret  woes  the  world  has  never  known. 
When  on  the  weary  night  dawned  wearier  day, 

And  bitterer  was  the  grief  devoured  alone. 
That  I  o'erlive  such  woes.  Enchantress!  is  thine  own. 

"Hark!  as  my  lingering  foosteps  slow  retire, 

Some  Spirit  of  the  Air  has  waked  thy  string! 
'T  is  now  a  seraph  bold,  with  touch  of  fire, 

'T  is  now  the  brush  of  Fairy's  frolic  wing. 
Receding  now,  the  dying  numbers  ring 

Fainter  and  fainter  down  the  rugged  dell, 
And  now  the  mountain  breezes  scarcely  bring 

A  wandering  witch-note  of  the  distant  spell, — 
And  now  't  is  silent  all !  —  Enchantress,  fare  thee  well ! " 

Two  years  after  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Mitnirel  appeared 
and  was  read  with  such  dehght,  a  Httle  vohime,  called 
Hours  of  Ldleness,  by  George  Gordon  Byron,  a  young 
1788-1824  "°^^^"^^^  °^  nineteen,  was  reviewed  in  one  of 
the  magazines  with  terrible  criticism.  The  Edin- 
burgh Revie7v,  the  same  which  had  so  laslied  the  poets  of 
the  Lake  School  with  its  criticism,  now  attacked  this  bud- 
ding poet.  It  is  true  that  the  Llours  of  Ldleness  was  not 
a  collection  of  masterpieces  of  poetry,  but  there  was  enough 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  379 

of  the  promise  of  that  genius  which  Byron  showed  after- 
wards to  make  us  feel  indignant  that  the  critics  could  not 
have  been  more  generous  to  the  young  writer.  If  Byron 
had  been  too  sensitive  to  rally  from  the  attack,  his  genius 
might  have  been  crushed  by  such  severity.  But  he  was  not 
a  man  to  sit  down  in  silence  and  take  abuse,  and  had 
a  strong  tendency  to  hit  back  again.  He  answered  in  a 
satire  in  verse  called  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers, 
which  was  so  strong  that  nobody  could  doubt  the  ability  of 
the  man  who  wrote  it.  In  this  satire  he  was  himself  severe 
on  the  Lake  Poets,  gave  Walter  Scott  some  hard  knocks,  and 
praised  Campbell,  Crabbe,  and  Rogers  as  the  poets  of  the 
classic  school  of  Pope,  whom  Byron  fancied  that  he  thought 
the  greatest  poet.  In  spite  of  this,  Byron  belonged  by  temper 
and  genius  to  the  new  school  of  poetry,  and  was  much  more 
revolutionary  in  temper  than  any  of  the  moderns. 

In  all  he  has  written  one  sees  that  he  was  a  child  of  the 
age  in  which  the  French  Revolution  had  raged.  The  tem- 
pests in  his  poetry  would  have  torn  to  tatters  the  orderly 
verses  of  Mr.  Pope,  or  of  any  of  the  others  whom  Byron 
praised  so  highly. 

After  his  tilt  with  the  bards  and  reviewers  he  travelled 
on  the  Continent,  and  there  wrote  the  first  and  second  cantos 
of  Childe  Harold.  When  he  went  to  see  his  London 
publisher,  on  his  return,  he  showed  him  some  translations 
from  the  Latin  poet  Horace,  as  the  great  occupation  of  his 
absence,  the  work  of  which  he  was  justly  proud.  The 
publisher,  rather  disappointed  at  this,  asked  if  he  had  noth- 
ing original ;  on  which  he,  rather  unwillingly,  produced  the 
first  cantos  of  Childe  Harold.  The  quick  eye  of  the  busi- 
ness man  saw  its  merit ;  it  was  printed  at  once,  and  Byron 
says,  "  I  awoke  one  morning  and  found  myself  famous." 
There  was  no  doubt  in  the  mind  of  critics  of  the  old  or 
new  order  about  such  poetry  as  this  :  — 

"Clear,  placid  T.eman  !  thy  contrasted  lake, 
With  the  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 


380  FAMILIAR   TALKS 

This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction.     Once  I  loved 
Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reproved 
That  1  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  have  been  so  moved. 

"It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear. 
Mellowed  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen, 
Save  darkened  Jura,  whose  capped  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep  ;  and  drawing  near. 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore, 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood ;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more. 

"  He  is  an  evening  reveller  who  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill ; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brake 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill, 
But  that  is  fancy ;  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil. 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues. 

"Ye  stars!  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven. 

If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fate 

Of  men  and  empires,  —  't  is  to  be  forgiven 

That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great, 

Our  destinies  o'erlcap  their  mortal  state. 

And  claim  a  kindred  with  you  ;  for  ye  are 

A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create 

In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar. 
That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named  themselves  a  star. 

"  All  heaven  and  earth  are  still,  —  though  not  in  sleep, 
But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most; 
And  silent,  as  wx  stand  in  thoughts  too  deep:  — 
All  heaven  and  earth  are  still :  from  the  high  host 
Of  stars,  to  the  lulled  lake  and  mountain  coast, 
All  is  concentred  in  a  life  intense. 
Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 
But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  defence. 

"Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite  so  felt 
In  solitude,  where  we  are  least  alone,  — 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  381 

A  truth  which  through  our  being  then  doth  melt. 
And  purifies  from  self;  it  is  a  tone. 
The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which  makes  known 
Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm 
Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea's  zone, 
Binding  all  things  with  beauty;  'twould  disarm 
The  spectre  Death,  had  he  substantial  power  to  harm. 

"  The  sky  is  changed ;  and  such  a  change !  O  night, 

And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 

Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 

Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman !     Far  along, 

From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among 

Leaps  the  live  thunder !  not  from  one  lone  cloud, 

But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue, 

And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud  ! 

"  Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings  !  ye ! 

With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 

To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 

Things  that  have  made  me  watchful.     The  far  roll 

Of  your  departing  voices  is  the  knoll 

Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless,  —  if  I  rest. 

But  where  of  ye,  O  tempests !  is  the  goal  ? 

Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast  ? 
Or  do  ye  find  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest  ? 

"  Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  now 
That  which  is  most  within  me  ;  could  I  wreak 
My  thoughts  upon  expression,  and  thus  throw 
Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,  strong  or  weak. 
All  that  I  would  have  sought,  and  all  I  seek, 
Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe,  into  one  word, 
And  that  one  word  were  Lightning,  I  would  speak; 
But  as  it  is,  I  live  and  die  unheard. 

With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a  sword. 

"The  morn  is  up  again, —  the  dewy  morn, 
With  breath  all  incense,  and  with  cheek  all  bloom, 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  with  playful  scorn, 
And  living  as  if  earth  contained  no  tomb, 
And,  glowing  into  day ;  we  may  resume 
The  march  of  our  existence ;  and  thus  I, 
Still  on  thy  shores,  fair  Lemaii !  may  find  room 
And  food  for  meditation,  nor  pass  by 
Much  that  may  give  us  pause,  if  pondered  fittingly." 


382  FAMILIAR    TALUS 

This  magnificent  handling  of  Nature,  this  description  of 
the  breathless  lull  before  the  storm,  the  burst  of  the  clouds 
on  Jura's  head,  the  passionate  invocation  to  lake,  river,  and 
mountain,  —  all  these,  beside  the  poetry  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  were  like  a  real  thunder-storm  beside  a  storm  in  a 
theatre. 

Before  Byron  finished  Childe  Harold,  he  wrote  a  num- 
ber of  stories  in  verse,  —  The  Corsair,  Lara,  The  Giaour, 
The  Bride  of  Abydos.  These  stories,  nearly  all  with  a  hero 
who  lived  in  revolt  against  law  and  order,  were  accepted 
as  pictures  of  the  poet's  own  stormy  nature.  Already,  in 
respectable  English  circles,  there  was  much  horror  felt  at 
this  strange,  original  spirit,  so  lawless  and  reckless;  and 
he  made  foes  as  well  as  friends  by  his  poetry. 

Going  back  to  Italy  a  second  time,  Byron  finished  Childe 
Harold,  and  in  his  later  years  wrote  several  dramatic  works. 
We?-ner,  Sardanapalus,  Cain,  The  Deformed  lyansformed, 
are  among  the  best  of  these.  These  were  dramatic  in  form, 
but  not  dramas  in  the  sense  of  works  fit  for  the  action  of 
the   stage. 

Byron's  shorter  or  lyric  poems  do  not  match  the  longer 
ones  in  merit.  His  wings  had  a  wide  sweep,  and  he  wanted 
plenty  of  room  for  his  flights.  The  lyric  poem  was  not  his 
forte.  His  best  short  poems  are  to  be  found  among  some 
songs  he  wrote  to  Hebrew  melodies.  Here  is  one  of  the 
most  familiar,  —  a  grand  piece  of  word  melody  :  — 

THE    DESTRUCTION    OF    SENNACHERIB. 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  sjjears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  summer  is  green, 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen  ; 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  autumn  hath  blown. 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered  and  strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  s])read  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  passed; 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  383 

And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  forever  grew  still. 

And  there  lay  the  steed,  with  his  nostril  all  wide ; 
But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breath  of  his  pride, 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider,  distorted  and  pale, 
With  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on  his  mail  ; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal ; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword. 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord. 

There  have  been  few  poets  who  could  handle  language 
with  Byron's  ease  and  power.  His  rhyming  is  a  marvel  of 
facility.  He  wrote  with  a  pen  that  played  as  freely  as  the 
lightning,  and  his  thought  never  seemed  to  feel  the  bonds 
of  rhyme. 

In  his  poetry,  Byron  warmly  took  up  the  cause  of  Greece, 
which  was  then  making  an  effort  to  free  herself  from  the 
Turks.  In  Childe  Harold  and  in  other  poems  some  grand 
passages  are  addressed  to  struggling  Greece.  The  year 
before  his  death  he  entered  into  the  plans  of  the  Greek 
leaders  in  a  war  for  their  country's  independence,  and  went 
to  live  at  Missolonghi,  where  he  mustered  a  band  of  soldiers 
in  his  own  pay.  Overwork  and  the  bad  climate  threw 
him  into  a  fever,  and  he  was  urged  to  leave  the  air  of 
Missolonghi,  which  was  malarious,  and  go  elsewhere  to 
recover.  He  refused,  saying  he  would  remain  till  Greece 
was  either  free  or  hopelessly  subdued.  He  died  soon  after, 
at  his  post  there,  in  the  prime  of  life  and  genius.  He  used 
to  say  he  had  up  to  that  time  written  only  for  women ;  in 
the  last  of  his  life  he  would  write  for  vien.  Would  he  had 
been  spared  to  do  even  greater  things  than  Childe  Harold .' 


384  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

LV. 

On  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

BETWEEN  Byron  and  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley,  who  were 
personal  friends,  there    is  a  kind  of  resemblance  in 
their  lives,  although  they  were  men  very  unlike  in  charac- 
ter.    They  were  both  of  aristocratic  birth,  both 
1790-1822 

held  opinions  very  different  from  most  young  men 

in  their  position,  and  they  won  a  similar  reputation  in  their 
social  circle,  where  their  characters  and  their  poetry  were 
looked  on  by  the  conservative  portion  as  dangerous  and 
immoral. 

Shelley  had  first  drawn  blame  on  himself  in  college, 
when  he  was  barely  twenty,  by  a  publication  which  was 
condemned  as  atheistic  ;  and  he  was  expelled,  finally,  from 
Oxford.  Much  that  he  did  later,  confirmed  the  bad  char- 
acter this  gave  him  in  the  eyes  of  respectable  and  well- 
ordered  English  society,  which,  like  Byron,  he  seemed 
bound  to   set  at  defiance. 

In  character  Shelley  was  a  noble,  pure  man.  The  con- 
duct for  which  he  was  blamed  sprang  from  his  own  highest 
ideal  of  right.  His  mind  had  early  formed  radically  differ- 
ent theories  from  those  of  most  men  of  his  class.  Born  of 
the  aristocracy,  he  was  an  extreme  democrat ;  in  religious 
and  social  ideas  he  was  a  freethinker.  Considered  apart 
from  his  opinions,  he  was  a  shy,  scholarly  man,  inclined  to 
immerse  himself  in  books,  unselfish,  full  of  humanity,  keenly 
sensitive  to  all  the  abuses  and  distresses  in  the  world,  and 
eager  to  make  the  world  better  at  any  cost.  Byron  said  of 
him  after  his  death,  "  He  was,  without  exception,  the  best 
and  least  selfish  man  I  ever  knew." 

He  began  to  write  very  early.  When  he  was  fifteen  he 
had  completed  two  novels.  In  college  he  began  his  poem 
of  Quee7i  Mab,  which  was  condemned  as  an  atheistic  pro- 
duction ;  and  after  he  left  college  his  works  followed  each 
other  rapidly.     Although  he  died  at  thirty,  he  had  written  a 


ON"  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  385 

good  deal  of  prose,  and  tried  his  hand  at  all  forms  of  poetic 
composition,  —  dramas,  lyrics,  blank  verse,  narrative  poems, 
and  several  poems  in  the  Spenserian  stanza,  which  seems 
to  have  been  a  favorite  form  with  him. 

In  181 7  he  went  to  Italy,  from  which  he  never  returned. 
He  had  written  Alasior,  or  The  Spirit  of  Solitude,  and  The 
Revolt  of  Islam,  before  his  departure  ;  his  other  works,  ex- 
cept a  few  shorter  poems,  belong  to  the  five  years  in  which 
he  lived  in  Italy. 

Among  his  ^X2ss\2>.'~,,  Prometheus  Unbound — a  tragedy  fol- 
lowing the  Greek  models  and  with  a  Greek  subject — was 
one  of  the  first  things  written  in  Italy,  during  a  residence 
at  Rome.  Afterwards  he  went  to  live  near  Lord  Byron  at 
Pisa,  and  here  his  mind  and  sympathies  were  so  taken  hold 
of  by  the  sad  story  of  Beatrice  Cenci  that  he  wrote  on  it 
his  tragedy,  The  Cenci.  It  is  the  most  painful  and  powerful 
drama  written  since  the  days  of  John  Webster  and  Philip 
Massinger,  and  it  would  be,  if  the  plot  were  not  too  revolt- 
ing, a  strong  acting  play. 

In  Julian  and  Maddalo  Shelley  put  the  characters  of 
Byron  and  himself  into  a  poem.  At  nearly  the  same  time 
that  this  was  written,  he  wrote  also  his  lament  for  Keats 
under  the  title  of  Adonais. 

Shelley's  poetry  is  imaginative  in  the  highest  degree ;  his 
was  an  imagination  governed  by  high  intellect.  Of  all  the 
later  poets  he  seems  to  me  most  of  all  a  poet  for  other 
poets.  No  one  who  has  not  the  imaginative  quality  in  a  rare 
degree  can  fully  understand  and  appreciate  Shelley.  He 
also  had  the  gift  of  writing  verse  of  most  musical  quality, 
which  seemed  to  flow  without  effort.  Macaulay  says,  "  His 
poetry  seems  not  to  have  been  an  art,  but  an  inspiration." 

This  musical  quality  shows  most  of  all  in  his  lyrics ;  he 
wrote  a  great  many  of  these,  some  long,  others  only  a  verse 
or  two.  I  think  there  is  no  lyric  of  equal  length  in  our 
language  which  is  so  perfect  as  Shelley's  Ode  to  a  Skylark. 
It  is  exquisite  in  melody,  —  the  first  requirement  of  a  lyric  ; 
the  images  it  contains  are  poetic  in  the  highest  degree ;  and 
it  is  full  of  an  aspiration  that  upbears   the   thoughts,  as  if 

25 


386  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

borne  aloft  on  the  wings  of  the  bird.     Can  anything  be 
more  musical  than  this?  — 

"  Sound  of  vernal  showers 
On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous  and  clear  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass." 

Or  more  spirited  than  these?  — 

"  Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest ; 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest. 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

"All  the  earth  and  air 
With  thy  voice  is  loud 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed." 

And  see  how,  without  changing,  the  measure  takes  on  deeper 
meaning :  — 

"  Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ? 

"  We  look  before  and  after. 
And  pine  for  what  is  not ; 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought." 

The  Cloud  is  another  lyric,  less  subtle  in  thought  than 
The  Skylark,  but  showing  the  wonderful  music  Shelley  could 
make  by  the  interlinking  of  words. 

Among  his  poems  of  a  fit  length  to  quote,  I  have  chosen 
The  Sensitive  Plant,  because  it  seems  to  me  a  most  charac- 
teristic poem,  —  in  its  melody,  in  its  imaginative  quality,  and 
in  its  very  subject  a  poem  in  harmony  with  Shelley's  own 
nature  :  — 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  387 


THE   SENSITIVE   PLANT. 

Part  I. 

A  sensitive  plant  in  a  garden  grew, 
And  the  young  winds  fed  it  with  silver  dew; 
And  it  opened  its  fan-like  leaves  to  the  light, 
And  closed  them  beneath  the  kisses  of  night. 

And  the  spring  arose  on  the  garden  fair, 
Like  the  spirit  of  love  felt  everywhere, 
And  each  flower  and  herb  on  Earth's  dark  breast 
Rose  from  the  dreams  of  its  wintry  rest. 

But  none  ever  trembled  and  panted  with  bliss 
In  the  garden,  the  field,  or  the  wilderness. 
Like  a  doe  in  the  noontide  with  love's  sweet  want, 
As  the  companionless  sensitive  plant. 

The  snowdrop  and  then  the  violet 
Arose  from  the  ground  with  warm  rain  wet, 
And  their  breath  was  mixed  with  fresh  odor,  sent 
From  the  turf,  like  the  voice  and  the  instrument. 

Then  the  pied  wind-flowers  and  the  tulip  tall, 
And  narcissi,  the  fairest  among  them  all, 
Who  gaze  on  their  eyes  in  the  stream's  recess 
Till  they  die  of  their  own  dear  loveliness ; 

And  the  naiad-like  lily  of  the  vale, 
Whom  youth  makes  so  fair,  and  passion  so  pale. 
That  the  light  of  its  tremulous  bells  is  seen 
Through  their  pavilions  of  tender  green  ; 

And  the  hyacinth,  purple  and  white  and  blue, 
Which  flung  from  its  bells  a  sweet  peal  anew 
Of  music  so  delicate,  soft,  and  intense, 
It  was  felt  like  an  odor  within  the  sense ; 

And  the  rose,  like  a  nymph  to  the  bath  addrest, 
Which  unveiled  the  depth  of  her  glowing  breast, 
Till  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting  air, 
The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay  bare  ; 

And  the  wand-like  lily,  which  lifted  up 
As  a  Mnenad  its  moonlight-colored  cup, 
Till  the  fiery  star  which  is  its  eye 
Gazed  through  clear  dew  on  the  tender  sky ; 


388  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

And  the  jessamine  faint,  and  the  sweet  tuberose,— 
The  sweetest  flower  for  scent  that  blows, — 
And  all  rare  blossoms  from  every  clime. 
Grew  in  that  garden  in  perfect  prime. 

And  from  this  undefiled  Paradise, 
The  flowers  (as  an  infant's  awakening  eyes 
Smile  on  its  mother,  whose  singing  sweet 
Can  first  lull,  and  at  last  must  awaken  it). 

When  Heaven's  blithe  winds  had  unfolded  them, 
As  mine-lamps  enkindle  a  hidden  gem. 
Shone  smiling  to  Heaven,  and  every  one 
Shared  joy  in  the  light  of  the  gentle  sun  ; 

For  each  one  was  interpenetrated 
With  the  light  and  the  odor  its  neighbor  shed, — 
Like  young  lovers,  whom  youth  and  love  make  dear, 
Wrapped  and  filled  by  their  mutual  atmosphere. 

But  the  sensitive  plant  which  could  give  small  fruit 
Of  the  love  which  it  felt  from  the  leaf  to  the  root, 
Received  more  than  all,  it  loved  more  than  ever. 
Where  none  wanted  but  it,  could  belong  to  the  giver. 

For  the  sensitive  plant  has  no  bright  flower ; 
Radiance  and  odor  are  not  its  dower  ; 
It  loves,  even  like  Love,  its  deep  heart  is  full. 
It  desires  what  it  has  not,  —  the  beautiful. 

The  light  winds  which  from  unsustaining  wings 
Shed  the  music  of  many  murmurings; 
The  beams  which  dart  from  many  a  star 
Of  the  flowers  whose  hues  they  bear  afar ; 

The  plumed  insects,  swift  and  free, 
Like  golden  boats  on  a  sunny  sea, 
I>aden  with  light  and  odor,  which  pass 
Over  the  gleam  of  the  living  grass  ; 

The  unseen  clouds  of  the  dew,  which  lie 
Like  fire  in  the  flowers  till  the  sun  rides  high. 
Then  wander  like  spirits  among  the  spheres, 
Each  cloud  faint  with  the  fragrance  it  bears; 

The  quivering  vapors  of  dim  noontide, 
Which,  like  a  sea,  o'er  the  warm  earth  glide. 
In  which  every  sound  and  odor  and  beam 
Move,  as  reeds  in  a  single  stream  ;  — 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  389 

Each  and  all,  like  ministering  angels,  were 
For  the  sensitive  plant  sweet  joy  to  bear, 
Whilst  the  lagging  hours  of  the  day  went  by, 
Like  windless  clouds  o'er  a  tender  sky. 

And  when  evening  descended  from  Heaven  above, 
And  the  earth  was  all  rest  and  the  air  was  all  love. 
And  delight,  though  less  bright,  was  far  more  deep, 
And  the  day's  veil  fell  from  the  world  o£  sleep, — 

The  sensitive  plant  was  the  earliest 
Upgathered  into  the  bosom  of  rest ; 
A  sweet  child  weary  of  its  delight, 
The  feeblest  and  yet  the  favorite. 
Cradled  within  the  embrace  of  night. 

Part  II. 

There  was  a  power  in  this  sweet  place. 

An  Eve  in  this  Eden,  a  ruling  grace, 

Which  to  the  flowers,  did  they  waken  or  dream, 

Was  as  God  is  to  the  starry  scheme. 

A  lady,  the  wonder  of  her  kind, 
Whose  form  was  upborne  by  a  lovely  mind, 
Which,  dilating,  had  moulded  her  mien  and  motion 
Like  a  sea-flower  unfolded  beneath  the  ocean. 

Tended  the  garden  from  morn  to  even  ; 
And  the  meteors  of  that  sublunar  heaven. 
Like  the  lamps  of  the  air  when  night  walks  forth. 
Laughed  round  her  footsteps  up  from  the  earth. 

She  had  no  companion  of  mortal  race. 
But  her  tremulous  breath,  and  her  flushing  face 
Told,  whilst  the  morn  kissed  the  sleep  from  her  eyes. 
That  her  dreams  were  less  slumber  than  paradise. 

As  if  some  bright  spirit,  for  her  sweet  sake, 
Had  deserted  heaven  while  the  stars  were  awake  ; 
As  if  yet  around  her  he  lingering  were, 
Though  the  veil  of  daylight  concealed  him  from  her. 

Her  step  seemed  to  pity  the  grass  it  prest ; 
You  might  hear,  by  the  heaving  of  her  breast. 
That  the  coming  and  going  of  the  wind 
Brought  pleasure  there,  and  left  passion  behind. 

And  wherever  her  airy  footstep  trod. 
Her  trailing  hair  from  the  grassy  sod 


390  FAMILIAR   TALKS 

Erased  its  light  vestige  with  shadowy  sweep. 
Like  a  sunny  storm  o'er  the  dark-green  deep. 

I  doubt  not  the  flowers  of  that  garden  sweet 
Rejoiced  in  the  sound  of  her  gentle  feet; 
I  doubt  not  they  felt  the  spirit  that  came 
From  her  glowing  fingers  through  all  their  frame. 

She  sprinkled  bright  water  from  the  stream 
On  those  that  were  faint  with  the  sunny  beam, 
And  out  of  the  cups  of  the  heavy  flowers 
She  emptied  the  rain  of  the  thunder-showers. 

She  lifted  their  heads  with  her  tender  hands, 
And  sustained  them  with  rods  and  osier  bands ; 
If  the  flowers  had  been  her  own  infants  she 
Could  never  have  nursed  them  more  tenderly. 

And  all  killing  insects  and  gnawing  worms, 
And  things  of  obscene  and  unlovely  forms, 
She  bore  in  a  basket  of  Indian  woof 
Into  the  rough  woods  far  aloof. 

In  a  basket,  of  grasses  and  wild-flowers  full, 
The  freshest  her  gentle  hands  could  pull, 
For  the  poor  banished  insects,  whose  intent. 
Although  they  did  ill,  was  innocent. 

And  many  an  antenatal  tomb, 
Where  butterflies  dream  of  the  life  to  come. 
She  left  clinging  ground  the  smooth  and  dark 
Edge  of  the  odorous  cedar  bark. 

This  fairest  creature  from  earliest  spring 
Thus  moved  through  the  garden,  ministering 
All  the  sweet  season  of  summer-tide, 
And,  ere  the  first  leaf  looked  brown,  she  died. 


Part  III. 

Three  days  the  flowers  of  the  garden  fair 
Like  stars,  when  the  moon  is  awakened,  were, 
Or  the  waves  of  Baia:,  ere  luminous 
She  floats  up  through  the  smoke  of  Vesuvius. 

And  on  the  fourth  the  sensitive  plant 
Felt  the  sound  of  the  funeral  chant ; 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  39 1 

And  the  steps  of  the  bearers,  heavy  and  slow, 
And  the  sobs  of  the  mourners,  deep  and  low. 

The  dark  grass,  and  the  flowers  among  the  grass, 
Were  bright  with  tears  as  the  crowd  did  pass  ; 
From  their  sighs  the  wind  caught  a  mournful  tone, 
And  sate  in  the  pines,  and  gave  groan  for  groan. 

The  garden,  once  fair,  became  cold  and  foul. 
Like  the  corpse  of  her  who  had  been  its  soul ; 
Which  at  first  was  lovely  as  if  in  sleep, 
Then  slowly  changed,  till  it  grew  a  heap 
To  make  men  tremble  who  never  weep. 

Swift  summer  into  the  autumn  flowed, 
And  frost  in  the  mist  of  the  morning  rode. 
Though  the  noon-day  sun  looked  clear  and  bright. 
Mocking  the  spoil  of  the  secret  night. 

The  rose-leaves,  like  flakes  of  crimson  snow, 
Paved  the  turf  and  the  moss  below ; 
The  lilies  were  drooping  and  white  and  wan 
Like  the  head  and  the  skin  of  a  dying  man. 

Then  the  rain  came  down,  and  the  broken  stalks 
Were  bent  and  tangled  across  the  walks ; 
And  the  leafless  network  of  parasite  bowers 
Massed  into  ruin,  and  all  sweet  flowers. 

Between  the  time  of  the  wind  and  the  snow, 

All  loathliest  weeds  began  to  grow, 

Whose  coarse  leaves  were  splashed  with  many  a  speck, 

Like  the  water-snake's  belly,  and  the  toad's  back ; 

And  plants  at  whose  names  the  verse  feels  loath. 
Filled  the  place  with  a  monstrous  undergrowth, — 
Prickly  and  pulpous,  and  blistering  and  blue. 
Livid  and  starred  with  a  lurid  dew. 

The  sensitive  plant,  like  one  forbid. 
Wept,  and  the  tears  within  each  lid 
Of  its  folded  leaves,  which  together  grew, 
Were  changed  to  a  blight  of  frozen  glue. 

For  the  leaves  soon  fell,  and  the  branches  soon 
By  the  heavy  axe  of  the  blast  were  hewn ; 
The  sap  shrank  to  the  root  through  every  pore, 
As  blood  to  a  heart  that  will  beat  no  more. 


392  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

For  'Winter  came  ;  the  wind  was  his  whip ; 
One  choppy  finger  was  on  his  lip  ; 
He  had  torn  the  cataracts  from  the  hills, 
And  they  clanked  at  his  girdle  like  manacles. 

His  breath  was  a  chain  which,  without  a  sound, 
The  earth  and  the  air  and  the  water  bound  ; 
He  came  fiercely  driven  in  his  chariot-throne 
By  the  tenfold  blasts  of  the  Arctic  zone. 

Then  the  weeds,  which  were  forms  of  living  death, 
Fled  from  the  frost  to  the  earth  beneath  ; 
Their  decay,  and  sudden  flight  from  frost, 
Was  but  like  the  vanishing  of  a  ghost. 

And  under  the  roots  of  the  sensitive  plant 
The  moles  and  the  dormice  died  for  want; 
The  birds  dropped  stiff  from  the  frozen  air, 
And  were  caught  in  the  branches  naked  and  bare. 

When  winter  had  gone,  and  spring  came  back, 

The  sensitive  plant  was  a  leafless  wreck  ; 

But  the  mandrakes  and  toad-stools  and  docks  and  darnels 

Rose  like  the  dead  from  their  ruined  charnels. 

In  Pisa  Shelley's  best  poems  were  written,  —  The  Cenci, 
Hellas,  The  Witch  of  Atlas,  Adonais,  The  Hymn  to  Intel- 
lectual Beaut}',  and  nearly  all  the  shorter  poems  of  which  I 
have  spoken.  The  last  thing  he  ever  wrote  was  The  Tri- 
tnnph  of  Time,  which  was  left  unfinished,  and  was  published 
by  his  wife  in  as  perfect  a  shape  as  she  could  bring  it  from 
his  scattered  papers. 

In  the  spring  of  1S22  Shelley  left  Pisa  and  took  a  house 
on  the  west  coast  of  Italy,  near  the  village  of  Lerici.  He 
was  very  fond  of  the  sea,  and  had  ordered  a  yacht  built,  in 
which  he  and  a  warm  friend,  Captain  Williams,  were  going 
to  spend  many  a  day  on  the  blue  Italian  waters  close  at 
hand.  On  the  sixteenth  of  May  the  yacht  arrived.  Shelley 
was  as  pleased  with  it  as  a  boy  with  a  long-wished-for  toy. 
They  made  several  excursions  in  the  boat,  which  was 
named  "  Don  Juan,"  from  Byron's  poem,  and  finally  came 
down  to  Leghorn  in  her.  After  a  few  days'  stay  here, 
Shelley  and  Williams  started  back  in  the  boat  for  the  town 
of  Spezzia,  on  the  Gulf  of  Spezzia,  not  far  from  their  home. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  393 

This  was  the  last  ever  seen  of  them.  A  sudden  sea-storm 
came  shortly  after  they  started,  with  a  dense  fog.  The 
little  boat  was  probably  run  down  by  some  larger  vessel. 
After  several  days  of  waiting  —  terrible  days  for  Mrs.  Shelley 
and  Mrs.  Williams  —  the  bodies  were  found  washed  up, 
wave-beaten  and  almost  fleshless,  on  the  shore.  What  was 
left  of  the  two  bodies  was  burned  on  a  funeral-pile  built  on 
the  sandy  shore,  and  their  ashes  were  buried  in  the  ceme- 
tery in  Florence.  Byron  was  foremost  in  this  strange 
burial  rite,  aided  by  Leigh  Hunt  and  by  Captain  Trelawney, 
who  was  a  friend  of  both  the  dead. 

Thus,  in  the  real  opening  of  life,  at  the  point  where  what 
was  best  in  him  seemed  ready  or  fruition,  Shelley  died. 
Men  of  much  less  genius  have  gained  a  larger  fame  and 
held  a  higher  place  in  the  annals  of  literature.  But  as  he 
is  one  of  the  most  poetic  of  poets,  he  will  always  be  loved 
by  those  of  his  own  guild ;  his  thought  will  take  deep  root 
in  the  hearts  of  other  poets,  and  serve  for  their  inspiration. 
For  himself  he  died  too  young;  the  promise  of  his  life 
was  thwarted  by  his  early  death.  Up  to  the  time  of  his 
death  he  had  been  restless  and  unsettled  in  spirit.  The 
seething  waves  of  thought  in  his  brain  should  have  had  time 
to  cool  and  settle  into  tranquillity.  Dying  at  thirty,  he  had 
not  reached  the  serene  heights  where  the  poet  ought  to 
dwell.  If  he  had  lived  longer,  I  feel  sure  time  would  have 
ripened  him  into  a  grand  maturity,  would  have  taught  him 
trust  and  patience,  and  brought  him  to  a  calm  which  in  his 
brief  life  he  had  not  reached. 


LVI. 
On  John  Keats. 

ONE  of  Shelley's  most  touching  and  beautiful  poems  is 
his  Adonais,  the  lament  for  Keats.  I  wish  it  were 
not  too  long  for  me  to  quote  it  all ;  I  can  give  you  here 
only  a  few  verses  :  — 


394  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

"  Oh,  weep  for  Adonais  !  —  The  quick  dreams, 
The  passion-wiiiged  ministers  of  thought. 
Who  were  his  flocks,  whom  near  the  living  streams 
Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom  he  taught 
The  love  which  was  its  music,  wander  not,  — 
Wander  no  more,  from  kindling  brain  to  brain. 
But  droop  there  whence  they  sprung ;  and  mourn  their  lot, 
Round  the  cold  heart,  where,  after  their  sweet  pain. 
They  ne'er  will  gather  strength,  nor  find  a  home  again. 

"  One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starry  dew 

Washed  his  light  limbs,  as  if  embalming  them; 

Another  dipt  her  profuse  locks,  and  threw 

The  wreath  upon  him,  like  an  anadem, 

Which  frozen  tears  instead  of  pearls  begem; 

Another  in  her  wilful  grief  would  break 

Her  bow  and  winged  reeds,  as  if  to  stem 

A  greater  loss  with  one  which  was  more  weak, 
And  dull  the  barbed  fire  against  his  frozen  cheek. 

"Another  Splendor  on  his  mouth  alit, 
That  mouth  whence  it  was  wont  to  draw  the  breath 
Which  gave  it  strength  to  pierce  the  guarded  wit, 
And  pass  into  the  panting  heart  beneath 
With  lightning  and  with  music  ;  the  damp  death 
Quenched  its  caress  upon  its  icy  lips  ; 
And  as  a  dying  meteor  stains  a  wreath 
Of  moonlight  vapor,  which  the  cold  night  clips, 

It  flashed  through  his  pale  limbs,  and  passed  to  its  eclipse. 

"All  he  had  loved,  and  moulded  into  thought. 
From  sha]ie  and  hue  and  odor  and  sweet  sound, 
Lamented  Adonais.     Morning  sought 
Her  eastern  watch-tower,  and  her  hair  unbound, 
Wet  with  the  tears  which  should  adorn  the  ground, 
Dimmed  the  aerial  eyes  that  kindle  day; 
Afar  the  melancholy  thunder  moaned, 
Pale  Ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  lay, 

And  the  wild  winds  flew  round,  sobbing  in  their  dismay." 

The  tenderness  Shelley  shows  for  Keats  in  this  beautiful 
elegiac  poem,  which  reminds  me  of  Spenser's  lament  for 
Sidney,  is  made  more  touching  by  the  fact  that  when  Shel- 
ley's poor  disfigured  body  was  found  washed  up  on  the 
shore  near  which  he  had  l)cen  drowned,  one  pocket  of  his 
jacket  had  a  volume  of  Keats  in  it,  doubled  back,  as  if 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  395 

when  death  clutched  the  frail  boat,  the  reader  had  hastily 
thrust  away  his  book,  in  the  middle  of  some  favorite  line. 
John  Keats's  life  is  sad  from  first  to  last.     He  was  born 

with  the  sensibility  of  a  poet,  which  feels  a  hurt 

u      1     .    u-  .1  u  u       1795-1820 

at  every  pore.     He  lost  his  mother,  whom  he 

loved  most  dearly,  when  a  schoolboy ;  he  was  apprenticed 

to  a  surgeon  at  fifteen,  and  the  boy,  who  felt  all  sorts  of 

fancies  flowering  in  his  mind  and  asking  for   expression, 

was  kept  for  three  years  pounding  drugs  in  a  mortar  and 

putting  up  his  master's  prescriptions.     During  this  time  he 

read  The  Fairy  Queen,  —  that  treasure-house    for   younger 

poets, —  and  spent  his  spare  time  in  imitating  the  Spenserian 

stanza  or  in  writing  verses  from  his  own  heart.     When  he 

was  twenty-two  he  published  his  poem  of  Endyniion,  which 

the  reviews    pounced    upon    with    their   usual    savageness. 

The  leading  reviews  —  the    Quarterly  and  the   Edinburgh 

—  remind   one    in    those    days    of  the  giant    in   Mother 

Goose's  Melodies.     They  seem  to  cry,  — 

"  Fee  !  faw  !  fum  ! 
I  smell  the  blood  of  a  young  poet. 
Be  he  alive  or  be  he  dead, 
In  the  street  or  in  his  bed, 
I  must  have  some  here  in  my  can !  " 

On  which  they  went  to  work  and  cut  him  up,  heart,  blood, 
bones  and  all,  in  their  pages.  In  Keats's  case  the  process 
of  cutting  up  was  fatal.  He  could  not  bear  such  treatment, 
or,  like  Wordsworth,  despise  it,  in  serene  faith  in  his  own 
power.  It  is  generally  believed  that  this  severe  criticism 
was  one  cause  of  his  death. 

Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  the  critics,  Endymion  was  a 
great  poem,  —  a  poem  that  in  a  short  time  the  critics  (who 
are  frequently  very  poor  oracles  till  popular  judgment  comes 
to  set  them  right)  were  obliged  to  pronounce  great. 

Keats's  disappointment  at  the  way  his  poem  was  treated 
was  bitter,  but  it  did  not  destroy  his  power  to  work.  Al- 
ready a  blood-vessel  had  broken  in  his  lungs,  and  signs  of 
consumption  began  to  show  themselves ;  but  only  two  years 
later  he  published  another  volume,  containing  Hyperion, 
Lamia,  Isabella,  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  and  other  poems. 


396  FAMILIAR   TALKS 

Among  the  shorter  lyrics  was  that  most  exquisite  Ode  to  a 

Xightitigalc :  — 

"Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down; 

The  voice  I  hear  tliis  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown ; 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  foimd  a  path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn ; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn." 

These  were  Keats's  last  words.  His  disease  gained  on 
him  rapidly,  and  when  only  a  little  over  twenty-five  years 
he  died.  But  his  Hfe  as  a  poet  was  more  rounded  and 
complete  than  that  of  many  older  poets.  I  have  not 
that  feeling  about  his  early  death  that  I  have  for  Shelley. 
Keats  sang  his  songs  and  died  ;  and  they  are  so  perfect  in 
their  way  that  we  do  not  complain  there  are  so  few,  nor 
feel  that  life  could  have  added  much  to  the  richness  of  his 
genius.  There  are  no  signs  of  any  conflicts  in  his  spirit 
which  needed  to  be  outlived  before  he  could  write  at  his 
best,  as  in  Shelley.  His  poetry  is  not  a  field  on  which 
ideas  are  at  battle,  or  theories  are  displayed.  They  are 
beautiful  fancies,  or  old  tales  woven  into  melodious,  pic- 
torial verses. 

His  poetry  is  the  most  perfect  of  word-painting.  One 
can  almost  see  colors  in  the  printed  lines  of  his  Endymion 
or  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes.  No  poet  could  better  use  words 
whose  sound  fits  the  meaning,  —  such  words  as  "  lush," 
"murmurous,"  and  others,  in  which  the  poet  speaks  to  the 
sense  as  well  as  the  thought.  No  poet  since  Shakespeare 
was  more  an  artist  in  the  use  of  the  adjective  words  which 
give  vividness  and  color.  For  example,  —  an  "  azure-lidded 
sleep,"  the  "  poppied  warmth  of  sleep,"  "  embalmed  dark- 
ness," "  the  silver-snarling  tnimpet  "  :  his  poetry  is  full  of 
such  instances.  He  is,  however,  much  more  than  a  mere 
word -poet,  and  has  seasons  of  strength  in  which  one  feels 
as  if  a  breeze  from  the  sixteenth  century  had  passed  over 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  397 

his  pages.  As  you  read  some  of  his  lines  you  are  borne 
over  the  artificial  fields  that  lie  between  to  the  poetry  of 
Marlowe  and  Chapman;  you  hear  a  strain  in  Endymion 
that  resembles  Marlowe's  Hero  and  Leander. 

But  melancholy  is  most  of  all  the  mark  he  set  upon  his 
poetry,  —  a  mark  which  has  been  copied  by  so  many  later 
versifiers  that  it  has  seemed  as  if  grief  and  pining  were  the 
poet's  themes.  In  these  later  poets  this  is  often  affecta- 
tion ;  in  Keats  it  was  genuine,  —  the  note  struck  by  the 
sensitive  spirit  over  whom  hung  the  shadow  of  early  death. 

Before  he  died  —  and  death  was  welcome  as  a  release 
from  pain  and  weariness  of  living  —  he  said  :  "  I  can 
feel  the  daisies  growing  over  me."  And  on  his  tomb  he 
ordered  inscribed  :  "  Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in 
water."  False  prophecy  !  Every  year  since  his  death  has 
set  him  higher  among  the  crowned  poets  of  the  world. 

It  is  difficult  to  quote  from  Keats.  He  has  written  few 
short  poems,  arid  his  longer  poems  will  not  bear  taking  by 
fragments.  His  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  is  one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful love-stories  told  in  verse  in  our  language.  I  can  give 
you  only  a  few  bits  here  and  there,  as  it  is  too  long  to  quote 
entire. 

The  story  opens  with  a  scene  of  revelry  on  St.  Agnes' 
Eve,  in  which  Madeline  is  the  chief  figure.  Madeline's 
heart  has  brooded  all  day  on  the  stories  of  St.  Agnes'  Eve,  — 
how  maidens  who  did  certain  charms  might  have  a  vision, 
at  night,  of  their  true  lovers,  who  would  appear  in  their 
sleep,  offering  all  dainties  to  eat,  — 

"  If  ceremonies  clue  they  did  aright,  — 

As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 

And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white ; 

Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways;  but  require 
Of  Heaven,  with  upward  eyes,  for  all  that  they  desire." 

Meantime  Madeline,  gliding  through  the  dance,  while 
her  thoughts  are  elsewhere,  is  watched  by  her  young  lover, 
Porphyro,  with  whose  house  her  father  and  kinsfolk  are  at 
war,  and  who,  at  peril  of  his  life,  has  stolen  here,  hoping 
only  to  get  sight  of  Madeline. 


398  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

The  old  nurse  Angela,  who  is  the  young  lovers'  only 
friend  in  all  the  hostile  castle,  tells  him  of  Madeline's  plan 
to  try  the  charm  of  St.  Agnes'  Eve ;  and  he  persuades  the 
dame  to  conceal  him  in  Madeline's  chamber,  where,  when 
she  sleeps,  he  will  spread  at  her  bed-side  the  feast  which 
the  charm  of  St.  Agnes  promises  to  her  vision. 

The  dame  hides  him  there  and  hobbles  off,  half  afraid  of 
what  she  has  done,  just  as  Madeline  enters  her  chamber. 

"Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in; 
Its  little  smoke  in  pallid  moonshine  died  : 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air  and  visions  wide. 
No  uttered  syllable  or  woe  betide ; 
But  to  her  heart  her  heart  was  voluble, 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side, 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in  her  dell. 

"A  casement  high  and  triple-arched  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits  and  flowers  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep  damasked  wings ; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries, 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 

A  shielded  scutcheon  blushed  with  blood  of  queens  and  kings. 

"Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  Heaven's  grace  and  boon; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest. 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint; 
She  seemed  a  splendid  angel,  newly  dressed, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven.    Torphyro  grew  faint ; 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint 

"  Anon  his  heart  revives  ;  her  vespers  done. 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees, 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one  ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees : 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed, 
Pensive  awhile,  she  dreams  awake  and  sees 
In  fancy  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed. 

But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  399 

"  Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 

In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplexed  she  lay, 

Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppressed 

Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away ; 

Flown  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow  day, 

Blissfully  havened,  both  from  joy  and  pain, 

Clasped  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray, 

Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain. 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 

"  Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress, 
And  listened  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness. 
Which,  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless 
And  breathed  himself;  then  from  the  closet  crept, 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness. 
And  over  the  hushed  carpet  silent  stept, 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peeped,  where,  lo  !  how  fast  she  slept. 

"  Then  by  the  bedside,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguished,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold  and  jet. 

"And  still  she  slept,  an  azure-lidded  sleep. 

In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavendered, 

While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 

Of  candied  apple,  quince  and  plum  and  gourd, 

With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 

And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon, 

Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferred 

From  Fez,  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one 
From  silken  Sarmacand  to  cedared  Lebanon. 

"These  delicates  he  heaped  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dislies,  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver ;  sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light  — 

"Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute. 
Tumultuous,  and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be, 
He  played  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute. 
In  Provence  called,  '  La  belle  dame  sans  mercy  t* 
Close  to  her  ear,  touching  the  melody ;  — 
Wherewith  disturbed,  she  uttered  a  soft  moan  : 
He  ceased  —  she  panted  quick —  and  suddenly 


400  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured  stone. 

"  Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld. 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep  ; 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  expelled 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep. 

*"  Ah,  Porphyro,'  said  she,  '  but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
Made  tunable  with  every  sweetest  vow  ; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear : 
How  changed  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill,  and  drear  I 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear  I 
Oh,  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe. 

For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not  where  to  go.' 

'• '  My  Madeline  !  sweet  dreamer!  lovely  bride  ! 

Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ? 

Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil  dyed? 

Ah  !  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 

After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 

A  famished  pilgrim,  —  saved  by  miracle. 

Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest, 

Saving  of  thy  sweet  self,  if  thou  think'st  well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 

"  'Hark  !  't  is  an  elfin  storm  from  faery  land. 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed  : 
Arise  !  arise  !  the  morning  is  at  hand,  — 
The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed. 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed ; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see,  — 
Drowned  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead. 
Awake  !  arise  !  my  love,  and  fearless  be. 
Far  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for  thee.' 

"  They  glide  like  phantoms  into  the  wide  hall  ; 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide. 
Where  lay  the  porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side; 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide. 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns  : 
T?y  one  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide,  — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones  ; 

The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  iiinges  groans. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  40I 

"  And  they  are  gone  :  aye  !  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm ; 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe, 
And  all  his  warrior  guests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm, 
Were  long  be-nightmared.     Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitched,  with  meagre  face  deform ; 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told. 

For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold." 

With  Keats,  who  died  in  1820,  we  enter  upon  the  fair 
field  of  modern  poetry,  and  find  ourselves  among  the  poets 
of  our  own  age  and  our  own  forms  of  thought. 

Lowell,  one  of  our  most  sympathetic  literary  critics,  has 
said,  — 

"  Three  men  almost  contemporaneous  with  each  other  — 
Wordsworth,  Keats,  and  Byron  —  were  the  great  means  of 
bringing  back  English  poetry  from  the  sandy  deserts  of  rhetoric 
and  recovering  for  her  her  triple  inheritance  of  simplicity,  sen- 
suousness,  and  passion.  Of  these,  Wordsworth  was  the  only 
conscious  reformer  and  the  deepest  thinker;  Keats,  the  most 
essentially  a  poet ;  and  Byron,  the  most  keenly  intellectual  of 
the  three.  .  .  .  Wordsworth  has  influenced  most  the  ideas  of 
succeeding  poets  ;  Keats  their  forms;  and  Byron,  interesting  to 
men  of  imagination  less  for  his  writings  than  for  what  his  writ- 
ings indicate,  reappears  no  more  in  poetry,  but  presents  an  ideal 
to  youth  made  restless  with  vague  desires  not  yet  regulated  by 
experience,  nor  supplied  with  motives  by  the  duties  of  Hfe." 


LVII. 

On  Some  Friends  of  the  Lake  Poets. 

THERE  are  many  interesting  writers,  in  prose  as  well 
as  verse,  who  wrote  at  the  time  the  Lake  School  was 
rising  to  fame.  They  are  worth  better  and  longer  mention 
than  I  can  give  in  one  brief  Talk.  The  early  part  of  this 
century  saw  gathered  in  London  a  group  of  men  more  in- 
teresting than  any  similar  group  since  the  days  when  the 
Scriblerus  Club  used  to  meet  at  Will's  Coffee-house. 

26 


402  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

Charles  Lmib,  one  of  the  sweetest  and  gentlest  charac- 
ters that  the  past  keeps  alive  for  us,  was  a  school- 

1775—1835  i.  k. 

mate  of  Coleridge  in  Christ's  Hospital  school,  and 
they  formed  a  friendship  there  which  was  never  broken. 
Lamb  was  a  man  of  varied  talents.  He  wrote  poems  and 
one  or  two  plays ;  but  his  merit  as  a  writer  is  shown  best 
in  his  Essays  of  Elia,  which  are  full  of  quaint  humor,  and 
have  a  pathos  entirely  their  own.  No  essays  so  fresh,  deli- 
cate, and  original  had  been  written  since  the  time  of  Abra- 
ham Cowley  as  these  of  Lamb,  and  I  think  I  would  rather 
part  with  Cowley  even  than  with  the  gentle  Elia. 

Lamb  was  a  true  Londoner,  born  and  dwelling  in  or  near 
that  great  city  all  his  life,  and  loving  it  as  if  it  were  a  feel- 
ing and  responsive  being,  conscious  of  his  love.  He  went 
to  visit  Wordsworth  once,  and  enjoyed  the  beautiful  lake 
and  mountain  region  among  which  his  friend  lived ;  but  his 
heart  was  always  in  London.  In  one  of  his  letters  to 
Wordsworth  he  says,  — 

"Separate  from  the  pleasure  of  j-our  company,  I  don't  much 
care  if  I  never  see  a  mountain  in  my  life.  I  have  passed  all 
my  days  in  London,  until  I  have  formed  as  many  and  intense 
local  attachments  as  any  of  your  mountaineers  have  done  with 
dead  nature.  The  lighted  shops  of  the  Strand  and  Fleet  Street, 
the  innumerable  tradesmen  and  customers,  coaches,  wagons, 
play-houses,  —  all  the  bustle  and  wickedness  round  about  Cov- 
ent  Garden,  the  watchmen,  drunken  scenes,  rabbles,  .  .  .  the 
crowds,  the  very  dirt  and  mud,  the  sun  shining  upon  houses  and 
pavements,  the  print-shops,  old  book-stalls,  parsons  cheapening 
books,  coffee-houses,  steams  of  soup  from  kitchens,  the  panto- 
mimes, —  London  itself  a  pantomime  and  masquerade,  —  all 
these  things  work  themselves  into  my  mind,  and  feed  me  with- 
out a  power  of  satiating  me.  The  wonder  of  these  sights  impels 
me  into  night-walks  about  the  city's  crowded  streets,  and  I  often 
shed  tears  in  tlie  moUey  Strand  from  fulness  of  joy  at  so  much 
life." 

Dr.  Johnson  also  loved  London  as  Lamb  did,  and  pre- 
ferred it  to  all  the  nature  outside. 

Lamb  held  for  years  a  place  as  clerk  in  the  India  House, 
and  his  slight,  stooping  figure,  clad  in  clerkly  black,  coming 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  403 

down  Fleet  Street  to  his  lodgings  in  the  Temple,  where  he 
lived  many  years,  is  one  of  the  most  vivid  pictures  in  my 
imagination.  His  sister  Mary,  who  is  the  Bridget  of  his 
essays,  was  his  housekeeper.  She  was  subject  to  fits  of 
insanity,  and  he  devoted  his  life  to  unfailing  care  of  her, — 
a  care  repaid  on  her  part  by  tenderest  gratitude  and  love. 
When  not  under  the  influence  of  these  melancholy  attacks, 
she  was  a  clever  woman  and  charming  companion. 

When  Lamb  was  about  fifty  he  was  pensioned  by  the 
East  India  Company,  in  whose  service  he  had  so  long  been 
a  clerk,  and  for  the  rest  of  his  days  he  lived  in  freedom. 
One  must  read  his  own  account  of  his  delight  at  his  eman- 
cipation, in  his  letters  to  friends,  to  see  how  keen  and 
boyish  was  his  enjoyment  of  the  liberation  from  his  daily 
drudgery. 

The  Essays  of  Elia  are  delightful  reading.  Their  humor 
is  so  quaint,  and  yet  so  tender,  that  in  reading  them  one 
often  laughs  with  tears  in  the  eyes. 

One  series  in  the  essays  on  Popular  Fallacies, — That 
handsome  is  that  handsome  does ;  That  a  man  must  not 
laugh  at  his  own  jest ;  That  ill-gotten  gain  never  prospers  ; 
That  we  should  rise  luith  the  lark,  —  are  in  Lamb's  wittiest 
vein. 

I  quote  for  you  from  his  Essays  of  Elia  the  greater  part 
of  his  amusing  dissertation  upon  Roast  Pig :  — 

"  Mankind,  says  a  Chinese  manuscript,  —  which  my  friend 
M — was  obliging  enougli  to  read  and  explain  to  me,  —  for  the 
first  seventy  thousand  ages  ate  their  meat  raw,  clawing  it  or 
biting  it  from  the  living  animal  just  as  they  do  in  Abyssinia  to 
this  day.  This  period  is  not  obscurely  hinted  at  by  their  great 
Confucius,  where  he  designates  a  kind  of  golden  age  by  the 
term  chofang,  literally,  tlie  Cooks'  Holiday.  The  manuscript 
goes  on  to  say  that  the  art  of  roasting,  or  rather  broiling  (which 
I  take  to  be  the  elder  brother),  was  accidentally  discovered  in 
the  manner  following.  The  swineherd  Ho-ti,  having  gone  out 
into  the  woods  one  morning,  as  his  manner  was,  to  collect  mast 
for  his  hogs,  left  his  cottage  in  the  care  of  his  eldest  son  Bo-bo, 
a  great  lubberly  boy  who,  being  fond  of  playing  with  fire,  as 
younkers  of  his  age  commonly  are,  let  some  sparks  escape  into 


404  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

a  bundle  of  straw,  which,  kindling,  quickly  spread  the  conflagra- 
tion over  every  part  of  their  poor  mansion,  till  it  was  reduced  to 
ashes.  Together  with  the  cottage  (a  sorry  antediluvian  make- 
shift of  a  building  you  may  think  it),  what  was  of  much  more 
importance,  a  fine  litter  of  new-farrowed  pigs,  no  less  than  nine 
in  number,  perished.  China  pigs  have  been  esteemed  a  luxury 
all  over  the  East  from  the  remotest  periods  that  we  read  of. 
Bo-bo  was  in  the  utmost  consternation,  as  you  may  think,  —  not 
so  much  for  the  sake  of  the  tenement,  which  his  father  and  he 
could  easily  build  up  again  with  a  few  dry  branches  and  the 
labor  of  an  hour  or  two,  at  any  time,  as  for  the  loss  of  the  pigs. 
While  he  was  thinking  what  he  should  say  to  his  father,  and 
wringing  his  hands  over  the  smoking  remnants  of  one  of  those 
untimely  sufferers,  an  odor  assailed  his  nostrils  unlike  any  scent 
which  he  had  before  experienced.  What  could  it  proceed  from.? 
Not  from  the  burnt  cottage,  —  he  had  smelt  that  smell  before  ; 
indeed,  this  was  by  no  means  the  first  accident  of  the  kind 
which  had  occurred  through  the  negligence  of  this  unlucky 
young  firebrand.  Much  less  did  it  resemble  that  of  any  known 
herb,  weed,  or  flower.  A  premonitory  moistening  at  the  same 
time  overflowed  his  nether  lip.  He  knew  not  what  to  think. 
He  next  stooped  down  to  feel  the  pig,  if  there  were  any  signs 
of  life  in  it.  He  burnt  his  fingers,  and  to  cool  them,  applied 
them,  in  his  booby  fashion,  to  his  mouth.  Some  of  the  crumbs 
of  the  scorched  skin  had  come  away  with  his  fingers,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  (in  the  world's  life  indeed,  for  before 
him  no  man  had  known  it),  he  tasted  —  crackling  ! 

"Again  he  felt  the  pig.  It  did  not  burn  him  so  much  now; 
still,  he  licked  his  fingers  from  a  sort  of  habit.  The  truth  at 
length  broke  into  his  slow  understanding  that  it  was  the  pig 
that  smelt  so  and  tasted  so  delicious  ;  and  surrendering  himself 
to  the  new-born  pleasure,  he  fell  to  tearing  up  whole  handfuls  of 
the  scorched  skin,  with  the  flesh  next  it,  and  was  cramming  it 
down  his  throat  in  his  beastly  fashion  when  his  sire  entered 
amid  smoking  rafters,  armed  with  retributory  cudgel,  and  find- 
ing how  affairs  stood,  began  to  rain  blows  upon  the  young 
rogue's  shoulders  as  thick  as  hailstones,  which  Bo-bo  heeded 
not  any  more  than  if  they  had  been  flies.  The  tickling  pleasure 
which  he  experienced  in  his  lower  regions  had  rendered  him 
quite  callous  to  any  inconveniences  he  might  feel  in  those  re- 
mote quarters.  His  father  might  lay  on,  but  he  could  not  beat 
him  from  his  pig  till  he  had  fairly  made  an  end  of  it,  when,  be- 
coming a  little  more  sensible  of  his  situation,  sometliing  like  the 
following  dialogue  ensued  :  — 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  ,-405 

"  '  You  graceless  whelp,  what  have  you  got  there  devouring  ? 
Is  it  not  enough  that  you  have  burned  me  down  three  houses 
with  your  dog's  tricks,  and  be  hanged  to  you,  but  you  must  be 
eating  fire,  and  I  know  not  what :  what  have  you  got  there,  I  say  ? ' 
"  '  Oh,  father,  the  pig  !  the  pig  !  Do  come  and  taste  how  nice 
the  burnt  pig  eats  ! ' 

"  The  ears  of  Ho-ti  tingled  with  horror.  He  cursed  his  son, 
and  he  cursed  himself  that  ever  he  should  beget  a  son  that 
should  eat  burnt  pig. 

"  Bo-bo,  whose  scent  was  wonderfully  sharpened  since  morn- 
ing, soon  raked  out  another  pig ;  and  fairly  rending  it  asunder, 
thrust  the  lesser  half  by  main  force  into  the  fists  of  Ho-ti,  still 
shouting  out,  '  Eat,  eat,  eat  the  burnt  pig,  father ;  only  taste  ! ' 
with  such  like  barbarous  ejaculations,  cramming  all  the  while  as 
if  he  would  choke. 

"  Ho-ti  trembled  in  every  joint  while  he  grasped  the  abomi- 
nable thing,  wavering  whether  he  should  not  put  his  son  to 
death  for  an  unnatural  young  monster,  when  the  crackling 
scorching  his  fingers  as  it  had  done  his  son's,  and  applying  the 
same  remedy  to  them,  he  in  his  turn  tasted  some  of  its  flavor,  — 
which,  make  what  sour  mouths  he  would  for  a  pretence,  proved 
not  altogether  displeasing  to  him. 

"In  conclusion  (for  the  manuscript  here  is  a  little  tedious), 
both  father  and  son  fairly  sat  down  to  tlie  mess,  and  never  left 
off  till  they  had  despatched  all  that  remained  of  the  litter. 

"  Bo-bo  was  strictly  enjoined  not  to  let  the  secret  escape,  for 
the  neighbors  would  certainly  have  stoned  them  for  a  couple  of 
abominable  wretches  who  could  think  of  improving  upon  the 
good  meat  which  God  had  sent  them.  Nevertheless,  strange 
stories  got  about.  It  was  observed  that  Ho-ti's  house  was 
burned  down  more  frequently  than  ever.  Nothing  but  fires 
from  this  time  forward.  Some  would  break  out  in  broad  day, 
others  in  the  night-time.  As  often  as  the  sow  farrowed,  so  sure 
was  the  house  of  Ho-ti  to  be  in  a  blaze;  and  Ho-ti  himself, 
which  was  the  more  remarkable,  instead  of  chastising  his  son, 
seemed  to  grow  more  indulgent  to  him  than  ever.  At  length 
they  were  watched,  the  terrible  mystery  discovered,  and  father 
and  son  summoned  to  take  their  trial  at  Pekin,  then  an  incon- 
siderable assize  town.  Evidence  was  given,  the  obnoxious 
food  itself  produced  in  court,  and  verdict  about  to  be  pro- 
nounced, when  the  foreman  of  the  jury  begged  that  some  of  the 
burnt  pig,  of  which  the  culprits  stood  accused,  might  be  handed 
into  the  box.  He  handled  it,  and  they  all  handled  it ;  and  burn- 
ing their  fingers  as  Bo-bo  and  his  father  had  done  before  them, 


406  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

and  nature  prompting  to  each  of  them  the  same  remedy,  against 
the  face  of  all  the  facts,  and  the  clearest  charge  which  judge 
had  ever  given,  to  the  surprise  of  the  whole  court,  townsfolk, 
strangers,  reporters,  and  all  present,  without  leaving  the  box  or 
any  manner  of  consultation  whatever,  they  brought  in  a  simul- 
taneous verdict  of  Not  Guilty. 

"  The  judge,  who  was  a  shrewd  fellow,  winked  at  the  mani- 
fest iniquity  of  the  decision  ;  and  when  the  court  was  dismissed, 
went  privily  and  bought  up  all  the  pigs  that  could  be  had  for 
love  or  money.  In  a  few  days  his  lordship's  town  house  was 
observed  to  be  on  fire.  The  thing  took  wing,  and  now  there  was 
nothing  to  be  seen  but  fire  in  every  direction. 

'*  Fuel  and  pigs  grew  enormously  dear  all  over  the  district. 
The  insurance  offices,  one  and  all,  shut  up  shop.  People  built 
slighter  and  slighter  every  day,  until  it  was  feared  that  the  very 
science  of  architecture  would  in  no  long  time  be  lost  to  the 
world.  Thus  the  custom  of  firing  houses  continued,  till  in 
process  of  time,  says  my  manuscript,  a  sage  arose  like  our 
Locke,  who  made  a  discovery  that  the  flesh  of  swine,  or  indeed 
of  any  other  animal,  might  be  cooked  (burnt  as  they  called  it) 
without  the  necessity  of  consuming  a  whole  house  to  dress  it. 
Then  first  began  the  rude  form  of  a  gridiron  ;  roasting  by  the 
string  or  spit  came  in  a  century  or  two  later,  —  I  forget  in  whose 
dynasty.  By  such  slow  degrees,  concludes  the  manuscript,  do 
the  most  useful,  and  seemingly  the  most  obvious,  arts  make  their 
way  among  mankind." 

A  life-long  friend  of  Lamb  and  an  early  admirer  of  Cole- 
,        ridge  was  William  Hazlht,  also  a  writer  of  essays 

1778—1830 

and  one  of  the  best  critics  of  his  time.  He  had 
set  out  to  be  a  painter  when  a  young  man,  but  his  success 
did  not  satisfy  him,  and  he  dropped  the  brush  for  the  pen. 
His  knowledge  of  art  helped  him  as  critic,  and  his  essays 
on  Hogarth's  pictures,  on  Joshua  Reynolds,  on  Vandyke, 
are  all  admirable  reading.  In  the  drama  he  was  hardly  less 
good  as  a  critic,  and  in  literature  best  of  all.  He  was  a 
student,  as  was  his  friend  Lamb,  of  the  sixteenth  century 
poets,  and  a  series  of  lectures  which  Hazlitt  gave  on  the 
old  poets  of  the  Elizabethan  age,  and  on  Shakespeare's 
plays,  are  well  worth  reading.  He  also  wrote  on  English 
comic  writers,  —  the  comic  dramatists  Congrcve,  Wycherlcy, 
Vanbrugh,    and    Farquhar;    and   besides   all   this   critical 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  407 

work,  he  wrote  a  great  many  essays  on  all  sorts  of  subjects, 
which  are  collected  under  the  name  of  Table  Talks. 

It  is  not  easy  to  select  a  specimen  from  Hazlitt's  essays 
without  quoting  at  too  great  length.  Yet  he  is  rich  in  strong, 
epigrammatic  sentences,  as  this  from  the  essay  On  the  Feel- 
ing of  Inwioriality  in  Youth:  "  No  young  man  believes  he 
shall  ever  die.  There  is  a  feeling  of  eternity  in  youth  which 
makes  us  amends  for  everything;  "  or  this:  "Perhaps  the 
best  cure  for  the  fear  of  death  is  to  reflect  that  life  has  a  be- 
ginning as  well  as  an  end  ;  "  or  this  grand  sentence  :  "  I  can 
forgive  the  dirt  and  sweat  of  the  gypsy  under  the  hedge 
when  I  consider  the  earth  is  his  mother,  the  sun  his  father." 
Among  his  essays  is  a  series  called  Spirit  of  the  Age,  in 
which  he  gives,  among  many  others,  sketches  of  Coleridge 
and  of  Wordsworth,  which  I  advise  you  to  read,  although 
it  is  to  be  kept  in  mind  that  Hazlitt  held  all  through  life 
the  liberal  opinions  which  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth  held 
only  in  youth,  and  that  there  was  in  Hazlitt  a  little  bitter- 
ness at  what  seemed  to  him  their  desertion  of  a  cause. 

An  essay  not  to  be  omitted  in  reading  him  is  On  my 
First  Acquaintance  with  Poets,  in  which  he  tells  how,  as 
a  boy,  he  first  met  Coleridge,  and  describes  the  charm  he 
held  over  him.  And  you  must  not  miss  another,  On  Persons 
one  would  wish  to  have  seen,  —  an  essay  reporting  a  con- 
versation on  that  subject,  in  which  Hazlitt,  Lamb,  Leigh 
Hunt,  and  others  took  part.  One  feels  quite  sure  that  the 
conversation  was  held  at  Lamb's  rooms  in  the  Temple,  on 
one  of  those  charming  evenings  at  which  mirth  and  wit 
presided  ;  and  one  wishes,  after  reading,  that  it  were  possible 
to  have  been  present. 

Indeed,  I  do  not  know  any  of  Hazlitt's  essays  which  are 
not  interesting ;  and  for  my  own  part,  I  wish  life  were  long 
enough  to  permit  me  to  read  every  word  he  has  written. 

Leigh  Huisrr  was  a  friend  of  Hazlitt  and  Lamb,  as  well  as 
of  Byron  and  Shelley.    He  was  a  writer  of  poems,  j«q4_i  059 
plays,  stories,  essays ;  his  pen  was  tried  in  every 
kind  of  writing.     He  began  early  to  edit  a  newspaper,  The 
Examiner,   and   made  a  brilliant    paper;   but  for  a  libel 


408  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

against  the  Prince  Regent  which  it  printed,  he  was  impris- 
oned for  two  years.  He  made  his  room  in  the  jail  a  bower 
of  taste,  painting  the  ceihng  hke  the  sky,  cloud-covered,  and 
papering  the  walls  in  patterns  of  flowers ;  and  with  books, 
piano,  statuary,  and  all  sorts  of  bric-a-brac  made  the  visi- 
tors who  came  to  see  him  feel  as  if  they  had  entered  a 
fairy-land.  Here  all  the  principal  men  of  the  time  visited 
him,  —  Byron,  Moore,  Hazlitt,  Lamb,  William  Godwin, 
Shelley,  and  many  others,  —  till  his  cell  seems  like  the  meet- 
ing-ground of  the  wits  of  that  day. 

His  works  are  too  great  in  number  even  for  the  titles  to 
be  mentioned.  Some  of  his  shorter  poems  are  very  pretty ; 
among  them  I  am  sure  you  will  know  the  little  iiAAtoi  Abou 
Ben  Adhem.  One  of  his  longest  poems,  Rifiiini,  is  on  an 
Italian  subject.  He  was  very  fond  of  Italy  and  her  poets, 
and  his  translations  from  them,  and  tales  paraphrased  from 
Ariosto,  Tasso,  and  the  other  great  poets,  are  among  his 
best  works.  He  was,  like  Hazlitt,  a  good  critic  of  the 
drama  and  literature.  He  is  a  graceful  writer,  with  so  much 
enthusiasm  for  that  which  he  likes  in  his  favorite  writers 
that  he  makes  his  reader  share  his  own  pleasure  in  reading 
them. 

His  prose  works,  such  as  A  Book  for  a  Corner,  Imagina- 
tion and  Fancy,  and  Tales  from  the  Italian  Poets,  will  out- 
live his  reputation  as  a  poet ;  and  it  is  as  prose-writer  and 
journalist  that  we  shall  best  remember  him. 

Walter  Savage  Landor,  who  was  the  friend  of  AVords- 

worth.  Lamb,  and  Coleridge,  and  the  life-long  and 
1776—1864  *-j  '  o 

intimate  friend  of  Southey,  was  a  man  who  outlived 

his  associates  and  companions  by  almost  a  generation  of 
time.  He  was  born  in  1775,  and  lived  to  be  nearly  ninety. 
Like  most  of  this  group,  he  was  poet  and  prose-writer 
both,  his  first  works  in  poetry  proving  too  subtle  in  mean- 
ing for  the  ordinary  reader.  He  took  up  prose-writing  in  a 
style  which,  though  still  remote  from  common  understand- 
ings, found  much  more  appreciation  than  did  his  poetry. 
But  his  works  have  always  found  warm  admirers  among  poets 
and  scholars.     Shelley,  Lamb,   Hazlitt,    all    read    his   first 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  409 

poem,  Gebir,  with  delight ;  Southey  hailed  him  as  a  great 
poet,  and  showed  for  him  an  admiration  which  Landor  re- 
turned with  interest ;  and  in  an  essay  on  Poetry  that  Poets 
Love,  Miss  Mitford  places  Landor's  poetry  at  the  head  of 
the  list. 

Landor's  admirers  stretch  down  through  the  century  into 
our  own  time.  Dickens  loved  him  with  enthusiasm,  and 
has  given  some  touches  of  his  character  in  Lawrence  Boy- 
thorn,  in  the  novel  of  Bleak  House ;  while  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson,  who  has  recorded  a  visit  to  Landor's  home  in 
Italy,  in  the  English  Traits,  says  :'  "  Year  after  year  the 
scholar  must  go  back  to  him  for  a  multitude  of  elegant 
sentences,  for  a  wisdom,  wit,  and  indignation  which  are 
unforgettable." 

The  best  part  of  Landor's  writing,  indeed,  is  found  in 
detached  sentences  in  his  prose,  or  short  passages  from  his 
poetry.  I  think  there  are  few  writers  in  English  whose 
works  would  furnish  sentences  for  so  large  a  book  of  aphor- 
isms as  his. 

He  was  very  much  in  sympathy  with  the  Greeks  and 
Romans.  A  good  deal  of  his  poetry  is  written  in  Latin, 
and  many  of  his  characters,  in  prose  especially,  are  Greeks, 
drawn  to  the  life.  Of  all  his  works,  the  general  reader 
would  be  most  interested  in  the  Imaginary  Conversations, 
which  embrace  several  series  of  conversations  between  the 
historic  characters  of  the  past,  —  between  Queen  Elizabeth 
and  Burleigh ;  Lady  Jane  Grey  and  Roger  Ascham ;  Philip 
Sidney  and  Lord  Brooke ;  Milton  and  Marvell.  One  of 
the  most  beautiful  among  all  of  these  is  the  Pericles  and 
Aspasia,  in  which  appear  the  wonderfully  life-like  char- 
acters of  Pericles,  Aspasia,  Anaxagoras,  Alcibiades,  and 
other  Greeks  of  that  time. 

Landor  had  undoubted  genius.  A  want  of  self-discipline 
seems  to  have  hindered  both  his  character  and  his  work 
from  coming  to  full  perfection.  It  is  a  great  deal  to  say  of 
him  that  he  is  a  poet  for  poets ;  it  would  be  still  better  to 
be  able  to  say  that  he  touched  the  deep  heart  of  humanity. 
One  feels  of  him  that  he  just  missed  a  height  he  might  have 


410  FAMILIAR   TALKS 

gained.  And  yet  there  are  few  books  I  would  so  unwillingly 
leave  unread  as  the  Imaginary  Conversations. 

Thomas  De  Quincey,  who  is  most  famous  for  his  Confes- 
sions of  an  English  Opium- Eater,  belongs  among 
these  men  of  the  Lake  School.  He  lived  for 
years  among  the  lakes  of  Westmoreland,  and  after  Words- 
worth left  his  cottage  at  Grasmere  to  live  at  Rydal  Mount, 
where  the  last  of  his  life  was  passed,  De  Quincey  took  the 
Grasmere  house,  and  lived  there  many  years.  In  London 
his  friends  were,  all  of  them,  in  the  group  of  which  I  have 
just  been  speaking.  Like  Coleridge,  he  was  many  years  an 
opium-eater,  and  his  Confessions  are  tinged  by  the  wonder- 
ful hues  his  fancy  took  on  under  the  influence  of  this  drug. 
There  are  passages  from  his  prose  which  have  few  equals  in 
the  language  for  eloquence  and  imagination.  And,  not- 
withstanding the  diseased  state  of  mind  which  his  habit  of 
opium-eating  induced,  he  did  a  great  amount  of  work,  and 
has  left  behind  him  many  volumes. 

This  group  of  men  of  varied  talents  were  contemporaries 
of  the  new  school  of  poetry,  and  upheld  its  doctrines.  They 
were  all  writers  for  the  current  periodical  literature  of  the 
time,  and  the  prose-writing  of  each  has  a  distinct  originality. 
But  the  master  among  prose-writers  of  tliis  time,  the  magi- 
cian who  cast  his  spell  over  his  age  and  over  future  times, 
is  Walter  Scott,  the  publication  of  whose  historical  novels 
forms  an  epoch  in  English  literature. 


LVIII. 

On  Walter  Scott  and  the  W^averlev  Novels. 

FROM  the  time  of  Miss  Burney's  Evelina,  in  1778,  until 
the  year  18 14,  I  think  it  will  be  conceded  that  the 
best  novels  were  written  by  women.  Women  had  found 
their  field,  and  they  held  it  well.  Among  the  masculine 
contemporaries  of  Miss  Edgcworth,   Mrs.  Radcliffe,  Jane 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  41 1 

and  Anna  Maria  Porter,  and  Miss  Austen,  were  Matthew 
Lewis,  whose  lurid  story,  The  Monk,  followed  in  the  track 
of  Anne  Radcliffe ;  Thomas  Holcroft,  the  author  both  of 
plays  and  novels  which  gained  popularity  in  their  day; 
Charles  Maturin,  an  Irish  clergyman,  the  author  of  roman- 
tic and  improbable  fictions,  and  the  tragedy  of  Bertram  ; 
William  Beckford,  who  wrote  the  weird  Eastern  story 
of  Vathek,  a  story  to  be  classed  in  the  group  of  fiction  in 
which  Johnson's  Rasselas  belongs.  But  none  of  the  works 
of  these  authors  are  equal  in  interest  to  those  of  Maria 
Edgeworth  or  Jane  Austen. 

If  there   is  any  exception  to  the   pre-eminence  of  the 

novels  of  this  period  written  by  women  over  those 

c  •.    u      ij  u  ^   \xi  n  .       1756-1836 

of  men,  it  should  be  given  to  William  Godwin  s 

Caleb  Williams,  which  is  to  be  noted,  not  only  as  a  popular 

novel,  but  as  one  of  the  first  English  fictions  written  for 

a  purely  philanthropic    purpose.     Godwin   had    written   a 

work  on  Political  Justice  before  he  wrote  this  novel,  and 

no  doubt  saw  he  could  reach  more  minds  by  a  novel  than 

by  a  philosophic  argument.     He  was  one  of  the  first  who 

used  fiction  to  hold  up  to  viev/  social  abuses  and  unjust 

laws  ;  but  he  has  had  many  followers,  and  a  large  part  of  the 

novelists  of  to-day  have  followed  in  Godwin's  footsteps. 

Caleb  Williams  is  a  book  which  every  one  ought  to  read 
who  is  interested  in  the  growth  of  the  English  novel.  It  is  a 
powerful  book,  and  will  hold  the  reader's  interest  from  first 
to  last.  That  it  is  dramatic  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  a 
play-writer  of  the  time,  George  Coleman,  founded  on  it 
his  drama  of  the  Iron  Chest,  still  an  acting  play. 

These  names  of  men  and  women  which  I  have  just  men- 
tioned were  the  leading  names  in  fiction  when,  in  18 14, 
an  anonymous  novel,  called  Waverley,  appeared,  —  a  novel 
whose  authorship  for  years  was  a  subject  of  doubt  and  curi- 
osity, Waverley  was  only  the  first  of  a  series  known  as  the 
Waverley  Novels,  —  a  series  appearing  at  rapid  intervals  for 
sixteen  years,  till  they  numbered  thirty-two  novels.  All 
these  tales  were  founded  on  historical  facts,  swarmed  with 
historical  characters  drawn  with  all  the  lines  of  truth,  and 


412  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

were  placed  among  scenery  and  surroundings  which  seemed 
to  be  accurate  studies  from  nature  and  life.  The  scenes  of 
these  romances  are  laid  in  England,  France,  Germany,  the 
lands  of  the  East,  to  the  very  door  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre ; 
in  time  they  cover  a  period  which  begins  at  the  close  of 
the  eleventh  century,  and  comes  down  to  the  opening  year 
of  the  nineteenth  ;  in  action  they  enter  upon  almost  every 
great  historic  field,  from  the  wars  of  the  Crusades  in  Syria, 
to  the  more  peaceful  scenes  of  the  reign  of  George  III.  in 
England.  Such  a  work,  so  wonderful  in  its  scope,  so 
varied  in  place,  time,  and  action,  was  that  of  Walter  Scott 
in  the  IVaverley  Novels. 

The  success  of  Byron  as  a  poet  turned  Scott  from  a 
poet  into  a  novelist.  He  printed  his  poem  of  Rokeby  at 
the  same  time  that  Byron's  Giaour  appeared.  Scott  read 
the  poem,  whose  popularity  cast  his  own  into  the  shade. 
When  he  laid  down  the  book,  he  said,  with  the  generosity 
which  was  natural  to  him  :  "  Byron  hits  the  mark  where 
I  don't  even  pretend  to  fledge  my  arrow." 

Several  years  before  this,  Scott  had  begun  the  novel  of 
IVaverley,  but  had  thrown  it  aside,  and  it  had  lain  appar- 
ently half  forgotten  for  years.  Shortly  after  the  publication 
of  Rokeby,  he  took  up  this  manuscript  and  went  to  work 
to  finish  it.  In  the  evenings  of  three  weeks  in  summer, 
when  he  was  busy  during  the  day  with  other  afiiiirs,  he 
completed  his  first  novel. 

John  Lockhart,  who  was  his  son-in-law,  and  after  Scott's 
death  wrote  his  life,  relates  that  a  party  of  young  men,  who 
lived  in  Scott's  neighborhood  at  the  time  he  was  finishing 
IVaverley,  were  having  a  jovial  dinner  together.  They  had 
adjourned  to  the  library  from  the  dining-room,  and  one  of 
them,  who  sat  opposite  a  large  window  which  looked  out 
upon  the  windows  of  an  adjoining  house,  was  observed  to 
change  in  manner,  and  his  whole  face  to  become  clouded 
and  melancholy. 

One  of  the  party  intimated  a  fear  that  he  was  not  well. 

"  'No,'  said  he,  '  I  sliall  be  well  cnoii!^"li  prcsenllv,  if  you  will 
only  let  mc  sit  where  you  are  and  take  my  chair ;  for  there  is  a 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE,  413 

confounded  hand  in  sight  of  me,  which  has  often  bothered  me 
before,  and  now  it  won't  let  me  fill  my  glass  with  a  good  will.' 

"  I  rose  to  change  places  with  him  accordingl}-,  and  he  pointed 
out  this  hand,  which,  like  the  writing  on  Belshazzar's  wall,  dis- 
turbed his  hour  of  hilarity. 

"  '  Since  we  sat  down,'  he  said,  '  I  've  been  watching  it ;  it 
fascinates  my  eye ;  it  never  stops ;  page  after  page  is  finished 
and  thrown  on  that  heap  of  manuscript,  and  still  it  goes  on  un- 
wearied ;  and  so  it  will  be  till  candles  are  brought  in,  and  God 
knows  how  long  after.  It  is  the  same  every  night.  I  can't 
stand  the  sight  of  it  when  I  am  not  at  my  books.' 

"  '  Some  stupid  clerk  ! '  cried  one  of  the  party.  '  No,  boys,'  said 
our  host,  '  I  know  what  hand  it  is,  —  it  is  Walter  Scott's ! '  " 

This  was  the  hand  which  wrote  Waverley  in  the  evenings 
of  three  weeks  in  summer. 

Scott's  success  as  a  novelist  in  his  own  time  was  imme- 
diate and  complete.  From  the  first  publication  of  Waver- 
ley the  fame  and  fortune  it  brought  were  Hke  the  wonders 
of  a  fairy-tale.  He  had  always  made  money  freely  by  his 
poems.  One  of  the  least  popular  of  these  had  sold  ten 
thousand  copies  in  three  months  ;  but  this  success  was  noth- 
ing to  the  success  of  the  novels.  From  one  story  alone  he 
received  in  two  months  three  thousand  pounds.  It  was 
like  the  opening  up  of  a  gold  mine.  The  ease  Avith  which 
money  flowed  in  upon  him  was  only  equalled  by  the  ease 
and  rapidity  with  which  he  wrote.  His  pen  seemed  never 
to  tire.  And  he  said  himself,  "  When  I  once  get  my  pen 
to  paper,  it  will  walk  of  itself." 

In  spite  of  the  great  number  of  novel  writers  who  have 
succeeded  him,  and  whose  works  cover  such  a  varied  field 
of  fiction,  Scott's  stories  still  hold  over  a  large  number  of 
readers,  old  and  young,  a  lasting  enchantment.  It  is  hardly 
to  be  expected  that  in  this  busy  age,  so  full  of  books,  we 
should  read  every  one  of  his  stones.  But  there  are  at 
least  half  a  dozen  which  v/e  cannot  afford  to  leave 
unread.  Each  lover  of  Scott  will  have  his  favorites ;  I 
shall  only  give  my  preference  when  I  name  as  the  first  half- 
dozen,  Ivanhoe,  Quentin  Durward,  Kenihvorth,  The  For- 
tunes of  Nigel,  The  Talisman,  and  JVoodstock.      There  is 


414  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

perhaps  something  of  accident  in  these  preferences,  and 
those  who  only  read  those  I  have  named  will  miss  many 
characters  which  have  almost  as  much  a  place  in  the  past 
as  the  characters  of  history,  —  the  spirited  Die  Vernon,  in 
Rob  Roy ;  Lucy  Ashton,  in  The  Bride  of  Laminermoor  ; 
the  quaint  figure  of  Dominie  Sampson,  in  Guy  Mannering  ; 
and  the  original  traits  of  Jonathan  Oldbuck,  in  The  Ajiti- 
quary.  It  is  said  that  of  all  his  novels,  Scott  himself 
preferred  The  Antiquary ;  although  an  author's  liking  for 
any  one  of  his  books  is  not  often  a  good  criterion  for  a 
reader. 

In  so  wide  a  range  to  choose  from,  it  is  difficult  to  settle 
upon  an  extract  from  Scott's  novels  which  shall  give  an 
example  of  his  style.  I  have  finally  taken  a  scene  from 
Ivanhoe,  the  most  widely  read  of  all  his  books ;  and  after 
that  a  scene  from  Kcnilworih. 

The  scene  from  Ivanhoe  is  from  the  description  of  the 
grand  tournament  held  by  Prince  John  at  Ashby,  in  which 
Robin  Hood,  under  the  disguise  of  Locksley,  wins  the 
prize   for  his  skill  in  archery. 

"  The  sound  of  the  trumpets  soon  recalled  those  spectators  who 
had  already  begun  to  leave  the  field,  and  proclamation  was  made 
that  Prince  John,  suddenly  called  by  high  and  peremptory 
public  duties,  held  himself  obliged  to  discontinue  the  entertain- 
ments of  to-morrow's  festival.  Nevertheless,  that,  unwilling  so 
many  good  yeomen  should  depart  without  a  trial  of  skill,  he  was 
pleased  to  appoint  them,  before  leaving  the  ground,  presently  to 
execute  the  competition  of  archery  intended  for  the  morrow. 
To  the  best  archer  a  prize  was  to  be  awarded,  being  a  bugle- 
horn  mounted  with  silver,  and  a  silken  baldric  richly  orna- 
mented with  a  medallion  of  Saint  Hubert,  the  patron  of  sylvan 
sport. 

"  More  than  thirty  yeomen  at  first  presented  themselves  as 
competitors,  several  of  whom  were  rangers  and  under-kecpers 
in  the  royal  forests  of  Needvvood  and  Charnwood.  When,  how- 
ever, the  archers  understood  with  whom  they  were  to  be 
matched,  upwards  of  twenty  withdrew  themselves  from  the  con- 
test, unwilling  to  encounter  the  dishonor  of  almost  certain 
defeat;  for  in  these  days  the  skill  of  each  celebrated  marksman 
was  as  well  known  for  many  miles  round  him  as  the  qualities  of 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  415 

a  horse  trained  at  Newmarket  are  known  to  those  who  frequent 
that  well-known  meeting. 

"The  diminished  list  of  competitors  for  sylvan  fame  still 
amounted  to  eight.  Prince  John  stepped  from  his  royal  seat  to 
view  more  nearly  the  persons  of  these  chosen  yeomen,  several 
of  whom  wore  the  royal  livery.  Having  satisfied  his  curiosity 
by  this  investigation,  he  looked  for  the  object  of  his  resent- 
ment,^ whom  he  observed  standing  in  the  same  spot,  and  with 
the  same  composed  countenance  which  he  had  exhibited  upon 
the  preceding  day. 

" '  Fellow,'  said  Prince  John,  '  I  guessed  by  thy  insolent 
babble  thou  wert  no  true  lover  of  the  long-bow,  and  I  see  thou 
darest  not  adventure  thy  skill  among  such  merry  men  as  stand 
yonder.' 

"  '  Under  favor,  sir,'  replied  the  yeoman,  '  I  have  another 
reason  for  refraining  to  shoot,  besides  the  fearing  discomfiture 
and  disgrace  ! ' 

"  'And  what  is  thy  other  reason?'  said  Prince  John,  who,  for 
some  cause  which  perhaps  he  could  not  himself  have  explained, 
felt  a  painful  curiosity  respecting  this  individual. 

"  '  Because,'  replied  the  woodsman,  '  I  know  not  if  these  yeo- 
men and  I  are  used  to  shoot  at  the  same  mark ;  and  because, 
moreover,  I  know  not  how  your  Grace  might  relish  the  winning 
of  a  third  prize  by  one  who  has  unwittingly  fallen  under  your 
displeasure.' 

"  Prince  John  colored  as  he  put  the  question :  *  What  is  thy 
name,  yeoman  ? ' 

"'Locksley,'  answered  the  yeoman. 

"'Then,  Locksley,' said  Prince  John,  'thou  shalt  shoot  in 
thy  turn,  when  these  yeomen  have  displayed  their  skill.  If  thou 
carriest  the  prize,  I  will  add  to  it  twenty  nobles  ;  but  if  thou 
losest  it,  thou  shalt  be  stript  of  thy  Lincoln  green,  and  scourged 
out  of  the  list  with  bow-strings  for  a  wordy  and  insolent 
braggart ! ' 

"  '  And  how  if  I  refuse  to  shoot  on  such  a  wager? '  said  the 
yeoman.  '  Your  Grace's  power,  supported  as  it  is  by  so  many 
men-at-arms,  may  indeed  easily  strip  and  scourge  me,  but  cannot 
compel  me  to  bend  or  to  draw  my  bow.' 

"  '  If  thou  refusest  my  fair  proff  jr,'  said  the  Prince,  '  the  Pro- 
vost of  the   lists   shall  cut  thy  bow-string,  break  thy  bow  and 

^  This  was  Locksley,  or  Robin  Hood,  whom  the  Prince  had 
noticed  the  preceding  day  applauding  a  Saxon  triumph,  which  John 
interpreted  as  an  insult  to  the  Normans. 


4l6  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

arrows,  and  expel  thee  from  the  presence  as  a  faint-hearted 
craven.' 

"  '  This  is  no  fair  chance  you  put  on  me,  proud  Prince,'  said 
the  yeoman,  '  to  compel  me  to  peril  myself  against  the  best 
archers  of  Leicester  and  Staffordshire,  under  the  penalty  of 
infamy  if  they  should  overshoot  me.  Nevertheless,  I  will  obey 
your  will.' 

"  '  Look  to  him  close,  men-at-arms,'  said  Prince  John,  '  his 
heart  is  sinking ;  I  am  jealous  lest  he  attempt  to  escape  the 
trial.  And  do  you,  good  fellows,  shoot  boldly  round  ;  a  buck 
and  a  butt  of  wine  are  ready  for  your  refreshment  in  yonder 
tent  when  the  prize  is  won.' 

"  A  target  was  placed  at  the  upper  end  of  the  southern  avenue 
which  led  to  the  lists.  The  contending  archers  took  their 
station,  in  turn,  at  the  bottom  of  the  southern  access ;  the  dis- 
tance between  that  station  and  the  mark  allowing  full  distance 
for  what  was  called  a  shot  at  rovers.  The  archers,  having  pre- 
viously determined  by  lot  their  order  of  precedence,  were  to 
shoot  each  three  shafts  in  succession.  The  sports  were  regu- 
lated by  an  officer  of  inferior  rank,  termed  the  Provost  of  the 
games ;  for  the  high  rank  of  the  marshals  of  the  lists  would 
have  been  held  degraded  had  they  condescended  to  superintend 
the  games  of  the  yeomanry. 

"  One  by  one  the  archers,  stepping  forward,  delivered  their 
shafts  yeoman-like  and  bravely.  Of  twenty-four  arrows  shot 
in  succession,  ten  were  fixed  in  the  target,  and  the  others  ranged 
so  near  it  that,  considering  the  distance  of  the  mark,  it  was 
accounted  good  archery.  Of  the  ten  shafts  which  hit  the  tar- 
get, two  within  the  inner  ring  were  shot  by  Hubert,  a  forester 
in  the  service  of  Malvoisin,  who  was  accordingly  pronounced 
victorious. 

"  '  Now,  Locksley,'  said  Prince  John  to  the  devoted  yeoman, 
with  a  bitter  smile,  'wilt  thou  try  conclusions  with  Hubert,  or 
wilt  thou  yield  up  bow,  baldrick,  and  quiver  to  the  I^rovost  of 
the  sports? ' 

"  '  Sith  it  may  be  no  better,'  said  Locksley,  '  I  am  content 
to  try  my  fortune,  on  condition  that  when  I  have  shot  two  sliafts 
at  yonder  mark  of  Hubert's,  he  shall  be  bound  to  shoot  one  at 
that  which  I  shall  propose.' 

"'That  is  but  fair,'  answered  Prince  John,  'and  it  shall  not 
be  refused  thee.  If  thou  dost  beat  this  braggart,  Hubert,  I  will 
fill  the  bugle  with  silver  pennies  for  thee.' 

'"A  man  can  but  do  his  best,'  said  Hubert;  'but  my  great- 
grandsire  drew  a  good  long-bow  at  Hastings,  and  I  trust  not  to 
dishonor  his  memory.' 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  417 

"  The  former  target  was  now  removed,  and  a  fresh  one  of  the 
same  size  placed  in  its  room.  Hubert,  who  as  victor  in  the 
first  trial  of  skill  had  the  right  to  shoot  first,  took  his  aim  with 
great  deliberation,  long  measuring  the  distance  with  his  eye 
while  he  held  in  his  hand  his  bended  bow,  with  the  arrow 
placed  in  the  string.  At  length  he  made  a  step  forward,  and 
raising  the  bow  at  the  full  stretch  of  his  left  arm,  till  the  centre, 
or  grasping  place,  was  nigh  level  with  his  face,  he  drew  the  bow- 
string to  his  ear.  The  arrow  whistled  through  the  air,  and 
lighted  within  the  inner  ring  of  the  target,  but  not  exactly  in  the 
centre. 

" '  You  have  not  allowed  for  the  wind,  Hubert,'  said  his  antag- 
onist, bending  his  bow,  '  or  that  had  been  a  better  shot.' 

"  So  saying,  and  without  showing  the  least  anxiety  to  pause 
upon  his  aim,  Locksley  stepped  to  the  appointed  station,  and 
shot  his  arrow  as  carelessly  in  appearance  as  if  he  had  not  even 
looked  at  the  mark.  He  was  speaking  almost  at  the  instant 
that  the  shaft  left  the  bowstring ;  yet  it  alighted  in  the  target  two 
inches  nearer  to  the  white  spot  which  marked  the  centre  than 
that  of  Hubert. 

"  '  By  the  light  of  Heaven  I'  said  Prince  John  to  Hubert,  'an 
thou  suffer  that  runagate  knave  to  overcome  thee,  thou  art 
worthy  of  the  gallows.' 

"  Hubert  had  but  one  set  speech  for  all  occasions.  'An  your 
Highness  were  to  hang  me,'  he  said,  'a  man  can  but  do  his 
best.     Nevertheless,  my  grandsire  drew  a  good  bow  — ' 

"  '  The  foul  fiend  on  thy  grandsire  and  all  his  generation,'  in- 
terrupted John  ;  '  shoot,  knave,  and  shoot  thy  best,  or  it  shall  be 
the  worse  for  thee.' 

"  Thus  exhorted,  Hubert  resumed  his  place ;  and  not  neglect- 
ing the  caution  which  he  had  received  from  his  adversary, 
he  made  the  necessary  allowance  for  a  very  light  air  of  wind 
which  had  just  arisen,  and  shot  so  successfully  that  his  arrow 
alighted  in  the  very  centre  of  the  target. 

"  '  A  Hubert  I  A  Hubert ! '  shouted  the  populace,  more  inter- 
ested in  a  known  person  than  in  a  stranger.  '  In  the  clout !  — 
in  the  clout  !     A  Hubert  forever  ! ' 

"  '  Thou  canst  not  mend  that  shot,  Locksley,'  said  the  Prince, 
with  an  insulting  smile. 

"  'I  will  notch  his  shaft  for  him,  however,'  replied  Locksley; 
and  letting  fly  his  arrow  with  a  little  more  precaution  than  be- 
fore, it  lighted  right  upon  that  of  his  competitor,  which  it  split 
to  shivers.  The  people  who  stood  around  were  so  astonished 
at  his  wonderful  dexterity  that  they  could  not  even  give  vent  to 

27 


4lS  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

their  surprise  in  their  usual  clamor.  '  This  must  be  the  devil, 
and  no  man  of  flesh  and  blood,'  whispered  the  yeomen  to  each 
other;  '  such  archery  was  never  seen  since  a  bow  was  first  bent 
in  Britain.' 

"'And  now,'  said  Locksley,  '  I  crave  your  Grace's  permission 
to  plant  such  a  mark  as  is  used  in  the  North  country,  and 
welcome  every  brave  yeoman  who  shall  try  a  shot  at  it,  to  win  a 
smile  from  the  bonny  lass  he  loves  best.' 

"  He  then  turned  to  leave  the  lists.  '  Let  your  guards  attend 
me,'  he  said,  '  if  you  please,  —  I  go  but  to  cut  a  rod  from  the 
next  willow-bush.' 

"  Prince  John  made  a  signal  that  some  attendants  should  follow 
him,  in  case  of  his  escape ;  but  the  cry  of  '  Shame  ! '  which  burst 
from  the  multitude  induced  him  to  alter  his  ungenerous  purpose. 

"  Locksley  returned  almost  instantly  with  a  willow  wand  about 
six  feet  in  length,  perfectly  straight,  and  rather  thicker  than 
a  man's  thumb.  He  began  to  peel  this  with  great  composure, 
observing,  at  the  same  time,  that  to  ask  a  good  woodsman  to 
shoot  at  a  target  so  broad  as  had  hitherto  been  used,  was  to 
put  shame  upon  his  skill. 

" '  For  his  own  part,'  he  said,  '  and  in  the  land  where  he  was 
bred,  men  would  as  soon  take  for  their  mark  King  Arthur's 
round  table,  which  held  sixty  knights  around  it.  A  child  of 
seven  years  old,'  he  said,  '  might  hit  it  with  a  headless  shaft ; 
but,'  he  added,  walking  deliberately  to  the  other  end  of  the 
lists,  and  sticking  the  willow  wand  upright  in  the  ground,  '  he 
that  hits  that  rod  at  five-score  3'ards,  I  call  him  an  archer  fit  to 
bear  both  bow  and  quiver  before  a  king,  an  it  were  the  stout 
King  Richard  himself.' 

" '  -^ly  grandsire,'  said  Hubert,  '  drew  a  good  bow  at  the 
battle  of  Hastings,  and  never  shot  at  such  a  mark  in  his  life, 
and  neither  will  L  If  this  yeoman  can  cleave  that  rod,  I  give 
him  the  bucklers,  —  or  rather,  I  yield  to  the  devil  that  is  in  his 
jerkin,  and  not  to  any  human  skill;  a  man  can  but  do  his  best, 
and  I  will  not  shoot  where  I  am  sure  to  miss.  I  might  as  well 
shoot  at  the  edge  of  our  parson's  whittle,  or  at  a  wheat-straw, 
or  at  a  sunbeam,  as  at  a  twinkling  white  streak  which  I  can 
hardly  see.' 

"'Cowardly  dog!'  said  Prince  John.  'Sirrah  Locksley,  do 
thou  shoot ;  but  if  thou  hittest  such  a  mark,  I  will  say  thou  art 
the  first  man  ever  did  so.  Howe'er  it  be,  thou  shalt  not  crow 
over  us  with  a  mere  show  of  superior  skill.' 

"'I  will  do  my  best,  as  Hubert  says,' answered  Locksley; 
'  no  man  can  do  more.' 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  419 

"  So  saying,  he  again  bent  his  bow,  but  on  tlie  present  occasion 
looked  with  attention  to  his  weapon,  and  changed  the  string, 
which  he  thought  was  no  longer  truly  round,  having  been  a 
little  frayed  by  the  two  former  shots.  He  then  took  his  aim 
with  some  deliberation,  and  the  multitude  awaited  the  event  in 
breathless  silence.  The  archer  vindicated  their  opinion  of  his 
skill :  his  arrow  split  the  willow  rod  against  which  it  was  aimed. 
A  jubilee  of  acclamations  followed,  and  even  Prince  John,  in 
admiration  of  Locksley's  skill,  lost  his  dislike  to  his  person. 
'These  twenty  nobles,'  he  said,  'which,  with  the  bugle,  thou 
hast  fairly  won,  are  thine  own  ;  we  will  make  them  fifty  if  thou 
wilt  take  livery  and  service  with  us  as  a  yeoman  of  our  body- 
guard, and  be  near  to  our  person;  for  never  did  so  strong  a 
hand  bend  a  bow,  or  so  true  an  eye  direct  a  shaft.' 

" '  Pardon  me,  noble  Prince,'  saith  Locksley,  '  but  I  have 
vowed  that  if  ever  I  take  service,  it  should  be  with  your  royal 
brother  King  Richard.  These  twenty  nobles  I  leave  to  Hubert, 
who  has  this  day  drawn  as  brave  a  bow  as  his  grandsire  did  at 
Hastings.  Had  his  modesty  not  refused  the  trial,  he  would  have 
hit  the  wand  as  well  as  I.' 

"  Hubert  shook  his  head  as  he  received  with  reluctance  the 
bounty  of  the  stranger,  and  Locksley,  anxious  to  escape  further 
observation,  mixed  with  the  crowd,  and  was  seen  no  more." 

The  novel  of  Kenihuorth  has  for  its  main  incident  the 
visit  of  Queen  Elizabeth  to  the  Earl  of  Leicester  at  his 
castle  of  Kenilvvorth,  and  the  festivities  that  were  made  to 
entertain  her.  The  dramatic  part  of  the  story  is  the  meet- 
ing of  the  queen  with  Amy  Robsart,  whom  Leicester  has 
secretly  married,  wishing  to  keep  this  marriage  from  the 
knowledge  of  his  royal  mistress.  One  of  the  most  powerful 
situations  in  all  Scott's  novels  is  given  in  the  following  ex- 
tract. The  queen  is  walking  in  the  gardens  of  Kenihvorth, 
when  by  chance  she  enters  a  grotto  in  which  Amy  Robsart, 
who  has  come  to  the  castle  without  the  knowledge  of  her 
husband,  has  concealed  herself :  — 

"Then  the  Queen  became  aware  that  a  female  figure  was 
placed  beside,  or  rather  partly  behind,  an  alabaster  column,  at 
the  foot  of  which  arose  the  pellucid  fountain,  which  occupied  the 
inmost  recesses  of  the  twilight  grotto.  .  .  .  As  she  advanced,  she 
became  doubtful  whether  she  beheld  a  statue  or  a  form  of  flesh 
and  blood.     The  unfortunate  Amy,  indeed,  remained  motionless, 


420  FAMILIAR    TALK'S 

betwixt  the  desire  which  she  had  to  make  her  condition  known 
to  one  of  her  own  sex,  and  her  awe  for  the  stately  form  which 
approached  her,  and  which,  though  her  eyes  had  never  before 
beheld,  her  fears  instantly  suspected  to  be  the  personage  she 
really  was.  Amy  had  arisen  from  her  seat  with  the  purpose  of 
addressing  the  lady  who  entered  the  grotto  alone,  and,  as  she  at 
first  thought,  so  opportunely.  But  when  she  recollected  the 
alarm  which  Leicester  had  expressed  at  the  Queen  knowing 
aught  of  their  union,  and  became  more  and  more  satisfied  that 
the  person  whom  she  now  beheld  was  Elizabeth  herself,  she 
stood  with  one  foot  advanced  and  one  withdrawn,  her  arms, 
head,  and  hands  perfectly  motionless,  and  her  cheek  as  pallid 
as  the  alabaster  pedestal  against  which  she  leaned.  Her  dress 
was  a  pale  sea-green  silk,  little  distinguished  in  that  imperfect 
light,  and  somewhat  resembled  the  drapery  of  a  Grecian 
nymph,  such  an  antique  disguise  having  been  thought  the  most 
secure  where  so  many  maskers  and  revellers  were  assembled, 
so  that  the  Queen's  doubt  of  her  being  a  living  form  was  well 
justified  by  all  contingent  circumstances,  as  well  as  by  the 
bloodless  cheek  and  the  fixed  eye.   .  .  . 

"  From  her  dress,  and  the  casket  which  she  instinctively  held 
in  her  hand,  Elizabeth  naturally  conjectured  that  the  beautiful 
but  mute  figure  which  she  bciheld  was  a  performer  in  one  of  the 
various  theatrical  pageants  which  had  been  placed  in  different 
situations  to  surprise  her  with  their  homage,  and  that  the  poor 
player,  overcome  with  awe  at  her  presence,  had  either  forgot 
the  part  assigned  her,  or  lacked  courage  to  go  through  it.  It 
v/as  natural  and  courteous  to  give  her  some  encouragement ; 
and  Elizabeth  accordingly  said,  in  a  tone  of  condescending 
kindness  :  '  How  now,  fair  nymph  of  this  lovely  grotto,  art  thou 
spell-bound,  and  struck  with  dumbness  by  the  charms  of  this 
wicked  enchanter  whom  men  term  Fear?  We  are  his  sworn 
enemy,  maiden,  and  can  reverse  his  charm.  Speak,  we  com- 
mand thee.' 

"  Instead  of  answering  her  by  speech,  the  unfortunate  countess 
dropped  on  her  knee  before  the  Queen,  let  her  casket  fall  from 
her  hand,  and  clasping  her  palms  together,  looked  up  in  the 
Queen's  face  with  such  a  mixed  agony  of  fear  and  supplication 
that  Elizabeth  was  considerably  affected. 

" '  What  may  this  mean  ? '  she  said.  '  This  is  a  stronger  pas- 
sion than  befits  the  occasion.  Stand  up,  damsel  :  what  wouldst 
thou  have  with  us  ! ' 

" '  Your  protection,  madam,'  faltered  forth  the  unhappy 
petitioner. 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE.  42 1 

" '  Each  daughter  of  England  has  it  while  she  is  worthy  of 
it,'  replied  the  Queen ;  '  but  your  distress  seems  to  have  a 
deeper  root  than  a  forgotten  task.  Wliy  and  in  what  do  you 
crave  our  protection  ? ' 

"  Amy  hastily  endeavored  to  recall  what  she  were  best  to  say, 
which  might  secure  herself  from  the  imminent  dangers  which 
surrounded  her  without  endangering  her  husband ;  and  plung- 
ing from  one  thought  to  another,  amidst  the  chaos  which  filled 
her  mind,  she  could  at  length,  in  answer  to  the  Queen's  repeated 
inquiries  in  what  she  sought  protection,  only  falter  out,  '  Alas  ! 
I  know  not.' 

"'This  is  folly,  maiden,'  said  Elizabeth,  impatiently;  for 
there  was  something  in  the  extreme  confusion  of  the  suppliant 
which  irritated  her  curiosity  as  well  as  interested  her  feelings. 
'  The  sick  man  must  tell  his  malady  to  the  physician,  nor  are 
WE  accustomed  to  ask  questions  so  oft  without  receiving  an 
answer.' 

'"I  request,  I  implore,'  stammered  forth  the  unfortunate 
countess,  '  I  beseech  your  gracious  protection  —  against  — 
against  —  one  —  Varney.'  She  choked  wellnigh  as  she  ut- 
tered the  fatal  word,  which  was  instantly  caught  up  by  the 
Queen. 

"  '  What  Varney  ?  Sir  Richard  Varney,  the  servant  of  Lord 
Leicester?     What,  damsel,  are  you  to  him,  or  he  to  you  ? ' 

'"I  —  I  —  was  his  prisoner,  and  he  practised  on  my  life,  and 
I  broke  forth  to  —  to  — .' 

"  '  To  throw  thyself  on  my  protection,  doubtless,'  said  Eliza- 
beth. '  Thou  shalt  have  it,  — ■  that  is,  if  thou  art  worthy  ;  for 
we  will  sift  this  matter  to  the  uttermost.  Thou  art,'  she  said, 
bending  on  the  countess  an  eye  which  seemed  designed  to 
pierce  her  very  inmost  soul,  '  thou  art  Amy,  daughter  of  Sir 
Hugh  Robsart,  of  Lidcote  Hall?' 

'"Forgive  me,  forgive  me,  most  gracious  princess,'  said 
Amy,  dropping  once  more  on  her  knee,  from  which  she  had 
arisen. 

"'For  what  should  I  forgive  thee,  silly  wench  ? '  said  Eliza- 
beth; 'for  being  the  daughter  of  thine  own  father?  Thou  art 
brainsick,  surely.  Well,  I  see,  I  must  wring  tlie  story  from 
thee  by  inches.  Thou  didst  deceive  thine  old  and  honored 
father,  —  thy  look  confesses  it,  —  cheated  Master  Tressilian, — 
thy  blush  avouches  it,  —  and  married  this  same  Varney.' 

"Amy  sprung  on  her  feet,  and  interrupted  the  Queen  eagerly 
with,  '  No,  madam,  no !  as  there  is  a  God  above  us,  I  am  not 
the  sordid  wretch  you  would  make  me ;  I  am  not  the  wife  of 


422  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

that  contemptible  slave,  of  that  most  deliberate  villain  !  I  am  not 
the  wife  of  \arney !  I  would  rather  be  the  bride  of  Destruction.' 

"  The  Queen,  overwhelmed  in  her  turn  by  Amy's  vehemence, 
stood  silent  for  an  instant,  and  then  replied,  '  Why,  God  ha' 
mercy !  woman,  —  I  see  thou  canst  talk  fast  enough  when  the 
theme  likes  thee.  Nay,  tell  me,  woman,'  she  continued  ;  for  to 
the  impulse  of  curiosity  was  now  added  that  of  an  undefined 
jealousy  that  some  deception  had  been  practised  on  her,  — 
'  tell  me,  woman,  —  for,  by  God's  day,  I  ivill  know,  whose  v.'ife, 
or  whose  paramour,  art  thou.  Speak  out,  and  be  speedy.  Thou 
wert  better  dally  with  a  lioness  than  with  Elizabeth.' 

"  Urged  to  this  extremity,  dragged  as  it  were  by  irresistible 
force  to  the  verge  of  the  precipice  which  she  saw  but  could  not 
avoid,  permitted  not  a  moment's  respite  by  the  eager  words 
and  menacing  gestures  of  the  offended  Queen,  Amy  at  length 
uttered  in  despair,  'The  Earl  of  Leicester  knows  it  all.' 

"  '  The  Earl  of  Leicester  ! '  said  Elizabeth,  in  utter  astonish- 
ment ;  '  the  Earl  of  Leicester,'  she  repeated,  with  kindling 
anger.  '  Woman,  thou  art  set  on  to  this,  —  thou  dost  belie  him  ; 
he  takes  no  keep  of  such  things  as  thou  art.  Thou  art  sub- 
orned to  slander  the  noblest  lord  and  the  truest-hearted  gentle- 
man in  England.  But  were  he  the  right  hand  of  our  trust,  or 
something  yet  dearer  to  us,  thou  shalt  have  tliy  hearing,  and 
that  in  his  presence.     Come  with  me,  come  with  me  instantly! ' 

"As  Amy  shrunk  back  in  terror,  which  the  incensed  queen 
interpreted  as  that  of  conscious  guilt,  Elizabeth,  hastily  ad- 
vanced, seized  on  her  arm,  and  hastened  with  swift  and  long 
steps  out  of  the  grotto  and  along  the  principal  alley  of  the 
Pleasance,  dragging  with  her  the  terrified  countess,  whom  she 
still  held  by  the  arm,  and  whose  utmost  exertions  could  but  just 
keep  pace  with  those  of  the  indignant  Queen. 

"  Leicester  was  at  this  moment  the  centre  of  a  splendid  group 
of  lords  and  ladies  assembled  together  under  an  arcade  or  por- 
tico which  closed  the  alley.  The  company  had  drawn  together 
in  that  place  to  attend  the  commands  of  her  Majesty  when  the 
hunting-party  should  go  forward;  and  their  astonishment  may 
be  imagined  when,  instead  of  seeing  Elizabeth  advance  towards 
them  with  her  usual  measured  dignity  of  motion,  they  beheld 
her  walking  so  rapidly  that  she  was  in  the  midst  of  them  ere 
they  were  aware,  and  then  observed,  with  fear  and  surprise,  that 
her  features  were  flushed  betwixt  anger  and  agitation,  that  her 
hair  was  loosened  by  her  haste  of  motion,  and  that  her  eyes 
sparkled  as  they  were  wont  when  the  spirit  of  Henry  VIII. 
mounted  highest  in  his  daughter;  nor  were  they  less  astonished 


ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  423 

at  the  appearance  of  the  pale,  attenuated,  half-dead,  yet  still 
lovely  female  whom  the  Queen  upheld  by  main  strength  with 
one  hand,  while  with  the  other  she  waived  aside  the  ladies  and 
nobles  who  pressed  towards  her,  under  the  idea  that  she  was 
taken  suddenly  ill. 

" '  Where  is  my  Lord  of  Leicester  ! '  she  said,  in  a  tone  that 
thrilled  with  astonishment  all  the  courtiers  who  stood  around ; 
♦  stand  forth,  my  Lord  of  Leicester ! ' 

"  If,  in  the  midst  of  the  most  serene  day  of  summer,  when  all 
is  light  and  laughing  around,  a  thunderbolt  were  to  fall  from  the 
clear  blue  vault  of  heaven,  and  rend  the  earth  at  the  very  feet 
of  some  careless  traveller,  he  could  not  gaze  upon  the  smoulder- 
ing chasm  which  so  unexpectedly  yawned  before  him  with  half 
the  astonishment  and  fear  which  Leicester  felt  at  the  sight 
that  so  suddenly  presented  itself.  He  had  that  instant  been 
receiving,  with  a  political  affectation  of  disavowing  and  misun- 
derstanding their  meaning,  the  half-uttered,  half-intimated  con- 
gratulations of  the  courtiers  upon  the  favor  of  the  Queen ; 
carried,  apparently,  to  its  highest  pitch  during  the  interview  of 
that  morning,  from  which  most  of  them  seemed  to  augur  that 
he  might  soon  arise  from  their  equal  in  rank  to  become  their 
master.  And  now,  while  the  subdued  yet  proud  smile  with 
which  he  disclaimed  those  inferences  was  yet  curling  his  cheek, 
the  Queen  shot  into  the  circle,  her  passions  excited  to  the  utter- 
most, and  supporting  with  one  hand,  and  apparently  without 
an  effort,  the  pale  and  sinking  form  of  his  almost  expiring  wife, 
and  pointing  with  the  finger  of  the  other  to  her  half-dead  feat- 
ures, demanded  in  a  voice  that  sounded  to  the  ears  of  the 
astounded  statesman  like  the  last  dread  trumpet-call  that  is 
to  summon  body  and  spirit  to  the  judgment-seat,  '■  Knowest 
thou  this  woman  ?  '  " 

From  the  publication  of  the  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel 
in  1805,  for  twenty  years  Scott's  prosperity  was  unbroken. 
Few  literary  men  have  had  such  continued  fame  and  fortune. 
Early  in  his  literary  career  he  formed  a  business  partner- 
ship, kept  a  secret,  with  two  friends  of  his,  James  and 
John  Ballantyne,  the  printers  of  his  books.  This  firm 
was  closely  allied  in  interest  with  that  of  Constable,  the 
publisher. 

In  the  full  tide  of  success,  when  he  might  have  been 
supposed  secure  from  pecuniary  trouble,  almost  without 
warning,  the  firms  of  his  publisher  and  printer  failed.    From 


424  FAMILIAR    TALKS 

the  fact  of  his  secret  partnership,  entered  into  so  long  before 
with  Ballantyne,  Scott  found  himself  hable  for  the  debts  of 
the  firm.  At  fifty-four  years  old  he  was  ovenvhelmed  with 
a  debt  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  pounds  for 
the  printing-firm,  besides  thirty  thousand  pounds  of  private 
debts.  His  private  debt  had  been  incurred  in  the  fitting  of 
his  home,  —  the  estate  of  Abbotsford.  Although  generally 
simple  in  his  tastes,  Scott  had  one  pet  extravagance.  To 
create  and  beautify  a  home  was  the  dream  of  his  life.  He 
had  begun  by  buying  some  land  on  which  he  intended  to 
build  a  tasteful  house ;  but  by  degrees  more  lands  had  been 
added,  till  the  little  estate  grew  into  baronial  acres,  and  the 
modest  mansion  became  a  castle.  It  was  an  ideally  beauti- 
ful place  ;  as  Miss  Edgeworth  said  when  she  went  from  her 
home  in  Ireland  to  visit  the  author  of  Wavcrky,  "  Every- 
thing about  you  is  exactly  what  one  ought  to  have  wit 
enough  to  dream," 

When  failure  came,  Scott  accepted  the  position  at  once 
with  characteristic  courage,  declared  that  he  could  and 
would  pay  all  debts,  and  saying,  "  Time  and  I  against  any 
two,"  went  at  once  to  work.  There  were  men  noble 
enough  to  come  to  his  aid.  The  young  Duke  of  Buccleugh 
offered  to  assume  alone  the  whole  debt,  but  Scott  refused 
all  such  offers.  For  answer,  new  novels  began  to  appear  at 
rapid  intervals.  In  five  years  he  had  paid  nearly  half  the 
debt,  with  interest.  After  his  death  the  value  of  the  copy- 
rights on  his  books  cleared  Abbotsford,  and  it  was  pre- 
served to  his[]family. 

But  such  work  as  this  was  too  much  even  for  such  capa- 
city for  work  as  his.  During  his  literary  career  he  was 
author  of  many  books  other  than  the  poems  and  novels 
which  make  his  fame.  He  had  edited  the  works  of  Dean 
Swift,  with  a  biography,  in  nineteen  volumes  ;  he  had  written 
a  voluminous  Life  of  Napoleon ;  he  was  the  author  of  a 
History  of  Scotland ;  he  had  furnished  articles  for  cyclo- 
paedias, magazines,  and  current  literature  :  all  these,  with 
historical  and  biographical  sketches,  had  come  from  this 
fertile  pen.     His  was  a  life  of  almost  unparalleled  industry; 


ON  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE. 


425 


and  it  is  not  strange  that,  while  still  in  the  vigor  of  age,  the 
cord  should  snap  by  its  strain,  that  the  pitcher  should  be 
broken  at  the  fountain.  In  the  midst  of  his  work  he  had 
a  paralytic  stroke,  the  natural  result  of  such  mental  efforts. 

After  he  was  taken  ill  he  would  do  prodigies  of  work, 
and  often  dictate  from  his  bed  while  in  pain  and  in  mental 
v/eariness.  In  1830  he  had  a  stroke  of  paralysis.  Even 
after  this  he  finished  his  two  last  novels,  Count  Robert 
of  Paris  and  Castle  Dangerous.  In  the  autumn  of  1831 
he  went  to  Italy  in  the  vain  hope  of  restoration,  but 
returned  to  Abbotsford  in  the  summer  of  1832  to  spend 
his  last  days  in  his  beloved  home.  He  called  one  day 
for  his  pen ;  but  the  hand  that  had  been  so  untiring  could 
not  hold  it,  it  dropped  from  his  grasp.  The  tears  rolled 
down  his  cheeks  as  he  bade  farewell  in  that  last  effort  to 
the  work  which  was  his  hfe,  and  from  that  time  he  failed 
rapidly;  and  Sept.  17,  1832,  at  the  age  of  sixty-one,  he 
died. 

His  death  and  the  close  of  his  work  seem  to  me  to  form 
a  fit  point  at  which  to  close  the  story  of  English  literature. 
About  the  time  that  he  passed  off  the  stage  there  were 
entering  upon  it  some  of  the  men  now  foremost  in  the 
literature  of  to-day,  —  the  living  authors  upon  whom  Time 
has  not  yet  passed  its  verdict.  With  the  death  of  Scott, 
therefore,  I  leave  the  history  of  the  literature  of  the  past. 
The  history  of  the  literature  of  our  living  writers  belongs 
to  the  future. 


INDEX. 


Abbotsford,  home  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  424. 

Addison,  Joseph,  life  and  works,  264  ; 
publislies  The  Spectator,  266 ;  es- 
says quoted,  270. 

Adonais,   poem    by   Shelley,   quoted, 

393- 
Akenside,  Mark,  poems  of,  297. 
Adhelm,    poet    of    seventh    century, 

36. 
Alexander's   Feast,  ode  by   Dryden, 

quoted,  236. 
Alfred    the   Great,    account    of,    37 ; 

literary  work,  38. 
Alliteration,  characteristic  of  Northern 

poetry,  33. 
America,  discovery  of,  its  influence  on 

literature,  84. 
Ancren  Kiwle,  quoted,  55. 
Angles,  their  position  m  Europe,  20, 

name  common  to  several  tribes,  20  ; 

sold  as  slaves  in  Rome,  24. 
Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle,  edited,  40. 
Anne,  queen  of  England,  243  ;  clubs 

in  her  reign,  244. 
Arabs,  in  Italy  and  Spain,  42. 
Arcadia,  written  by  Sir  Philip  Sidney, 

109;  extracts  from,  no. 
Areopagitica,  Milton's,  197. 
Arnold,    Matthew,    on    Wordsworth, 

362. 
Arthur,  king  of  Britain,  46,  47,  83. 
Aryan,  mother-race  of   European  na- 
tions, 20. 
Ascham,  Roger,  schoolmaster  of  Queen 

Elizabeth,  95. 
Augustan  age,  The,  243. 
Augustine,    Christian    missionary   in 

England,  25. 
Austen,  Jane,  novels  of,  326,  411. 


Bacon,  Francis,  life,  116;  essays, 

118;  extracts  from  works,  119. 
Bacon,  Nicholas,  116. 
Bacon,  Roger,  56. 


Ballads,   Early   English,    50;    Robin 

Hood  ballad  quoted,  51. 
Bards,  among  the  Britons,  24. 
Barrow,    Isaac,    eminent    clergyman, 

220. 
Battle  of  the  Baltic,  poem  by  Camp- 
bell, quoted,  365. 
Baxter,  Richard,  eminent  divine,  220. 
Bcattie,  James,  297. 
Beaumont,   Francis,  life  and  works, 

158  ;  lyrics  of,  161. 
Beckford,  William,  author  of  Vathek, 

II. 
Beda,  The  Venerable,  literary  work  of, 

37  ;  translation  of  Gospels,  37. 
Bee,    The,    periodical    pubhshed    by 

Goldsmith,  314. 
Beggar's  Opera,    The,  quoted   from, 

253- 
Beowulf,    oldest   English   poem,    27 ; 

conjectures     about,     27  ;     quoted, 

29-31. 
Bible,  first  brought  to  England,  25  ; 

its     influence    on     literature,     25  ; 

Wycliffe's  translation  of,  65  ;  trans- 
lated by  Tyndale,  85. 
Black-eyed    Susan,    ballad    by    Gay, 

quoted,  255. 
Boethius,  works  of,  translated  by  King 

Alfred,  38. 
Boswell,    James,    biography    of    Dr. 

Johnson,  308. 
Britain,  first  inhabitants,  21  ;  its  con- 
quest by  Romans,  21  ;  invasion  of, 

by  English,  22. 
British  Museum,  27. 
Britons,  a  Kymric  people,  21. 
Brittany,  ancient  books  in,  46  ;   tales 

of,  47. 
Brut,  The,  poem  by  Layamon,  55. 
Brutus,  founder  of  the  British  nation, 

46. 
Bunyan,  John,  life  and  writings,  221  ; 

extract  from  works,  223. 
Burnet,  George,  history  of  his  time, 


428 


INDEX. 


Eurncy,  Fanny,  life  and  novels,  319; 
extract  from  novels,  320. 

Burns,  Robert,  account  of,  339  ;  his 
songs,  340. 

Butler,  Samuel,  writings  of,  207. 

Byron,  George  Gordon,  Lord,  criti- 
cised by  Edinburgh  Review,  378 ; 
Childe  Harold,  379;  poems  and 
plays,  3S2. 


C^DMON,  account  of,  34;  poem  by, 

quoted,  35. 
Caesar,  Julius,  invades  Britain,  21. 
Caleb    Williams,    novel   by    William 

Godwin,  411. 
Campaspe,  play  by  Lyly,  extract  from, 

129. 
Campbell,  Thomas,  poems  of,  364. 
Canterbury  Tales,  quoted,  74-7S. 
Canute,  see  Cnut. 
Carcw,  Thomas,  poems  of,  177. 
Castaway,    The,    poem    by    Cowper, 

quoted,  337. 
Cavaliers,  character  of,  186. 
Caxton,  William,  life  and  work  of.  So. 
Cedric  the  Saxon,  29. 
Cecil,  Robert,  114. 

Chapman,  George,  translator  of  Ho- 
mer, 162. 
Charles!.,  King,  affairs  in  his  reign, 

1 87  ;  beheaded,  187. 
Charles   II.,  King,  character  of,  198; 

estimate  of  Cowley,  203. 
Chatterton,  Thomas,   account  of   his 

life,  329  ;  works,  332. 
Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  61  ;  life  and  works, 

69;  his  Canterbury'  Talcs,  71-S0. 
Childe  Harold,  poem,  quoted,  379. 
Chivalry,  influence  of,  46. 
Clarissa  Harlowc,  quoted,  300. 
Clubs,  in  London,  244. 
Cnut,    king   of    England,    41  ;    song 

composed  by,  42. 
Colonel  Jack,  De  Foe's  novel,  extract 

from,  2-;9. 
Collins,  William,  poems  of,  295. 
Coleridge,    Samuel    Taylor,  348 ;   life 

and  poetry,  349-356. 
Complete  Angler,  The,  description  of, 

220. 
Condell,    Henry,  edits    Shakespeare, 

140. 
Confessio  Amantis,  by  Gower,  68. 
Congreve,  William,  account  of,   2S3  ; 

play,  extract  from,  284. 
Consolations  of    Philosophy,  by  Boe- 

thius,  quoted,  38. 
Cornwall,  Britons  settle  in,  22. 
Cowley,  Abraham,  life  and  works,  203; 

extracts  from  poems,  205. 


Cowper,   William,    account  of,    336 ; 

poems  of,  quoted,  337-339- 
Crabbe,  George,  poems  of,  342. 
Cressy,  battle  of,  57. 
Cromwell,  Oliver,  Lord  Protector,  187; 

John  Milton  his  secretary,  190. 
Crown  of  Laurel,  poem  by  Skellon,  88. 
Crusades,  influence  of,  45. 
Cuthbert,  disciple  of  Beda,  37. 


Danes,  war  with  English,  40;  con- 
quer England,  40  ;  a  Teutonic  tribe, 
41. 

Daniel,  Samuel,  poems  of,  115. 

Davenant,  Sir  William,  improves  the 
stage,  229. 

De  Foe,  Daniel,  account  of,  257  ;  ex- 
tracts from  works,  259. 

Dekker,  Thomas,  extracts  from,  164. 

Denliam,  Sir  John,  poet  of  Charles  I.'s 
reign,  172. 

Denmark,  voyage  in,  1% ;  Northmen 
from,  41. 

De  Ouincey,  Thomas,  writings  of,  410. 

Deserted  Village,  extract  from,  317. 

Donne,  John,  life  of,  170;  extracts 
from  poetry  of,  171. 

Drama,  English,  sudden  rise  of,  i2i  ; 
its  originality,  135  ;  of  the  Restora- 
tion, 22S. 

Drayton,  Michael,  poems  of,  11^. 

Drummond,  William,  description  of 
Jonson,  157. 

Dryden,  John,  life  and  writings,  229; 
extracts  from  plays,  231,  235;  last 
days,  239. 


Eddtus,  writes  first  English  biogra- 
phy, 36. 
Edgcworth,  Maria,   novels    of,    325 ; 

visit  to  Scott,  424. 
Edinburgh   Review,  criticises   Byron, 

378;  criticises  Keats,  395. 
Edward    III.,    King,     57;    fights   at 

Cressy,  57  ;  pensions  Chaucer,  70. 
Edward  the  Confessor,  in  Normandy, 

42;    made    king   of   England,   43; 

death  of  43. 
Egwin,    Bishop,  writes  first    English 

autobiography,  36. 
Elaine,  story  of,  82. 
Eleanor,  queen  of  England,  45. 
I''legy  in  Country  Churchyard,  302. 
Elizabeth,  Queen,  her  accession  to  the 

throne,  95 ;  luxury  in  her  reign,  96 ; 

pensions  Spenser,  99. 
Emma,  queen  of  England,  42. 
English  language,  displaced  by  Latin, 

36;    Gospels   translated    into,   37; 


INDEX. 


429 


struggles  against  foreign  tongues, 
49;  estabHshment  in  England,  57. 

English  tribes,  called  Angles,  21  ; 
conquer  Britain,  22. 

Essay  on  Man,  quoted,  249. 

Essays  of  Elia,  quoted,  403. 

Ethelbert,  king  of  Kent,  25. 

Ethelred  the  Unready,  42. 

Etherege,  George,  dramatist,  229, 

Euphues,  extracts  from,  128. 

Europe  in  prehistoric  times,  27. 

Eurydice,  story  of,  Tji. 

Evelina,  Miss  Burney's  novel,  extract 
from,  320. 

Evelyn,  John,  life  and  works,  212  ;  ex- 
tract from  diary,  217. 

Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  poem,  extract  from, 
398. 

Exeter  Book,  extract  from,  32. 


Fairy  Queen,  account  of,  100;  ex- 
tracts from,  101-107. 

Farquhar,  George,  comedy  writer, 
286. 

Faustus,  play  by  Marlowe,  extracts 
from,   132. 

Ferrex  and  Porrex,  first  English 
tragedy,  122. 

Fielding,  Henry,  account  of,  303. 

Fletcher,  John,  collaborates  with 
Shakespeare,  141 ;  life  and  works, 
158  ;  extracts  from  plays,  160. 

Ford,  John,  dramatist,  167. 

Foxe,  John,  quoted,  66. 

France,  minstrels  in,  44. 

Franks,  a  Teutonic  tribe,  20. 

French  literature,  influence  on  Eng- 
lish, 230. 

Fuller,  Thomas,  quoted,  65  ;  work  of, 
220. 


Gaimar,  Geoffrey,  Anglo-Norman 
poet,  48. 

Galahad,  Knight  of  Round  Table,  47, 
82. 

Gay,  John,  life  and  works,  253. 

Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  46,  55. 

Gerald  de  Barri,  or  Gerald  of  Wales, 
48. 

Germany,  minstrels  in,  44. 

Gertrude  of  Wyoming,  extracts  from, 
367- 

Goodwin,  William,  novel  of,  411. 

Gogmagog,  British  giant,  47. 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  quoted,  309  ;  mem- 
ber of  Literary  Club,  312;  life  and 
works,  313;  extracts  from  works, 
316-318. 

Goths,  a  Teutonic  tribe,  20. 


Gower,  John,  61  ;  works  of,  68  ;  com- 
pliment to  Chaucer,  69  ;  works  pub- 
lished by  Caxton,  81. 

Gray,  Thomas,  account  of,  293  ;  poems 
quoted,  294. 

Gregory  the  Great,  Pope,  25. 

Greene,  Robert,  early  dramatist,  123; 
life  and  works,  124  ;  extract  from 
plays,   124. 

Greville,  Fulke,  Lord  Brooke,  113. 

Guenever,  queen  of  Arthur,  82. 

Gulliver's  Travels,  quoted,  276-282. 

Guy  of  Gisborne,  Robin  Hood  and, 
ballad,  quoted,   51. 


Hamlet,  play  of,  extract  from,  146. 
Harold,  king  of  England,  43. 
Hastings,  Battle  of,  43. 
Hazlitt,  William,  quoted,    284,   286  ; 

account  of,  406. 
Hebrews,  of  .Semitic  race,  25  ;  influence 

of  their  literature  on  English,  26. 
Heminge,   John,   edits   Shakespeare's 

plays,   140. 
Hengist,  invades  Britain,  22. 
Henry  L,  King,  45. 
Henry   II.,    King,   literature    in    his 

reign,  45. 
Henry  III.,  King,  issues  proclamation 

in  English,  57. 
Henry   VIII.,    King,   events    of    his 

reign,  84. 
Henry  of  Huntingdon,  45. 
Henry,  Prince,  son  of  James  I.,  186. 
Herbert,  George,  life  and  poetry  of, 

174. 
Herrick,    Robert,  life   and  works   of, 

175  ;  a  royalist,  1S8. 
Hilda,  Abbess,  at  Whitby,  34. 
History  of  Friars  Bacon  and  Bungay, 

extracts  from,  124. 
Holcroft,  Thomas,  works  of,  411. 
Holinshed's  Chrouicle,  142. 
Holy  Grail,  quest  for,  447. 
Homer,    Northern     poetry   compared 

with,  31  ;  first  English  translation, 

162  ;  Pope's  translation,  247. 
Horsa,  invades  Britain,  22. 
Howard,    Thomas,   Earl    of    Surrey, 

poems  of,  89  ;  quoted,  90. 
Hudibras,  poem  by  Butler,  20S. 
Hunt,  Leigh,  account  of,  407. 


Idyls  of  the  King,  by  Tennyson,  82. 
II  Penseroso,  quoted,  194,  195. 
Imaginary  Conversations,  by  Landor, 

409. 
Indian  Emperor,  play  of,  quoted,  234. 
Invention  of  printing,  influence  of,  80. 


430 


INDEX. 


Irish  Melodies,  quoted,  370. 

Italian     literature,     its    influence    on 

English,  96. 
Italy,  wandering  scholars  from,  42. 
Ivanhoe,  novel  by  Scott,  29 ;  extracts 

from,  49,  414. 


James  I.,  King,  arrests  Raleigh,  113; 

reign  of,   185. 
Jew  of   Malta,  play  of,  extract  from, 

133- 

John,  King,  loses  Normandy,  57. 

John  of  Gaunt,  patron  of  Chaucer, 
70;  Shakespeare's  character  of,  144. 

Johnson,  Samuel,  influence  of,  on  iiis 
age,  154;  account  of,  307;  works 
of,  309  ;  his  account  of  Goldsmith, 
315  ;  meets  Miss  Burney,  319. 

Jonson,  Ben,  account  of,  153;  his 
plays,  155;  songs  of,  156;  descrip- 
tion of,  157;  a  friend  of  Herrick, 
176;  influence  of,  on  his  age,  307. 

Jutes,  their  position  in  Europe,  20. 

Keats,  John,  account  of,  395 ;  poetry, 
396 ;  extracts  from  poems,  396- 
401. 

Kenil worth,  novel  by  Scott,  156;  ex- 
tract from,  419. 

Kit-Kat  Club,  founded,  245. 

Knights  of  Round  Table,  47. 

Knight's  Tale,  Ciiaucer's,  extract  from, 

74- 
Kyd,  Thomas,  dramatist,  134. 
Kymric  Language,  old  MSS.  in,  46. 
Kymry,  known  also  as  Britons,  21. 


Lake  School  of  Poetry,  account 

of,  349. 
Lalla  Kookh,  extracts  from,  372. 
L'Allegro,  extracts  from,  191-194. 
Lamb,  Charles,  character    and  works 

of,  402  ;  extract  from    essays,  403  ; 

friend  of  Hazlitt,  406. 
LamI),  Mary,  sister  of  Charles,  403. 
Landor,  Walter,  Savage,  account  of, 

408. 
Lanfranc,    establishes    a    school,   42 ; 

Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  45. 
Langland,    William,    (n  ;   account   of, 

62  ;  extract  from  his  poem,  63. 
Launcelot    du    Lake,    knight   of    the 

Round      Table,     47 ;      in      Morte 

d'Arthur,  82. 
Layamon,  author  of  the  Brut,  55. 
Lee,  Nathaniel,  dramatist,  229. 
Leicester,  Earl  of,  96. 
Lewis,  Matthew,  411. 


Literary  Club,  founded  by  Dr.  John- 
son, 312. 

Lockhart,  John,  biographer  of  Walter 
Scott,  412. 

Lodge,  Thomas,  dramatist,  135. 

London,  ancient  name  of,  47;  Lamb's 
description  of,  402. 

Lord  of  the  Isles,  poem,  extract  from, 

375- 

Love  for  Love,  play,  extract  from, 
284. 

Love,  or  Genevieve,  poem  by  Cole- 
ridge, quoted,  353. 

Lovelace,  Richard,  177  ;  life  and  works, 
iSo  ;  a  Royalist,  iSo. 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  quoted,  401. 

Lydgate,  John,  80,  Si. 

Lyly,  John,  quoted,  96;  early  drama- 
tist, 126;  life  and  works,  127;  ex- 
tracts from  works,  127,  128. 


Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington, 
on  Bunyan,  227  ;  on  Dr.  Johnson, 
312. 

Macpherson,  James,  edits  Ossian's 
poems,  327. 

Malcontent,  The,  play  of,  extract 
from,   163. 

Malory,  Sir  Thomas,  writes  Morte 
d'Arthur,  82. 

Mandeville,  John,  62  ;  life  and  writings, 
66;  extracts  from,  67,  68. 

Mannyng,  Robert,  of  Brunne,  56. 

Man  of  Law's  Tale,  from  Chaucer, 
extract  from,  77. 

Map,  Walter,  works  of,  47. 

Marlowe,  Christopher,  early  dramatist, 
122;  life  and  works,  129;  extracts 
from  plays  of,  131-134, 

Marston,  John,  163. 

Marvell,  Andrew,  a  Puritan,  261  ;  ac- 
count of,  202 ;  extract  from  poems, 
202. 

Masques,  description  of,  156;  Milton's 
Comus  and  Arcades,  190. 

Massingcr,  Philip,  167. 

Matthew  of  Paris,  history  of,  56. 

Maturin,  Charles  Robert,  411. 

Mermaid  Tavern,  club  which  met  there, 
it;5  ;  Milton  born  near,  189. 

Mill,  John  Stuart,  opinion  of  Words- 
worth, 362. 

Milton,  John,  greatness  of,  189;  life 
and  works,  189;  extracts  from  po- 
ems, 1 9 1- 1 96,  198-200  ;  plea  for  free 
press,   197. 

Miracle-plays,  subjects  of,  121. 

Moore,  Thomas,  account  of,  368  ;  ex- 
tracts from  Irish  Melodies,  370; 
from   Lalla   Rookh,   372. 


INDEX. 


431 


More,  Sir  Thomas,  death  of,  86;  ex- 
tracts from  Utopia  of,  86. 

Morte  d'Arthur,  account  of,  82;  ex- 
tract from,  83. 

Mysteries.     See  Miracle-plays. 


Nash,  Thomas,  dramatist  of  sixteenth 

century,  134  ;  Spring  song  by,  135. 
Night  Thoughts,  poem,  extract  from, 

288. 
Norman  Conquest,  43. 
Normandy,  settled  by  Northmen,  41 ; 

lost  to  English  Crown,  57. 
Normans,   in    Northern    France,    41 ; 

literature  among,  44. 
Northmen,  invade  France,  41. 
North  Sea,  20,  21. 


OccLEVE,  Thomas,  poems  of,  80. 
Ode   to   Immortality,    extracts    from, 

360. 
Ode  to  Skylark,  poem,  quoted,  3S6. 
Odericus  Vitalis,  early  historian,  45. 
Odin,  god  of  Teutons,  23. 
Opie,  Amelia,  novels  of,  325. 
Ormin,  early  English  writer,  55. 
Ormulum,  55. 
Orpheus,  story  of,  38. 
Ossian,  poems  of,  extract  from,  327. 
Otway,  Thomas,  dramatic  poet,  229. 


Pamela,  novel  by  Richardson,  299. 

Paradise  Lost,  poem  of,  extract  from, 
198. 

Parnell,  Thomas,  song  quoted,  236. 

Passion  Play,  resemblance  to  early 
drama,  121. 

Peele,  George,  account  of,  122. 

Pepys,  Samuel,  account  of,  213;  ex- 
tracts from  Diary  of,  214. 

Percy,  Thomas,  edits  old  ballads, 
326. 

Peter  the   Great,   Czar,  in  England, 

213- 

Philaster,  play  of,  extracts  from,  165. 

Picts,  overrun  Britain,  22. 

Pilgrim's    Progress,    description     of, 

222 ;    extract   from,    224. 
Pleasures  of  Memory,  poem,  extract 

from,  343. 
Plutarch's  Lives,  used  by  Shakespeare, 

143- 
Polyolbion,  poem  by  Draytonf,  115. 
Pope,    Alexander,    account    of,    246 ; 

extracts  from  poems,  248-250. 
Porter,  Anna  Maria,  novels  of,  326. 
Porter,  Jane,  novels  of,  326. 
Prior,  Matthew,  poem  by,  quoted,  252. 


Puritans,  opposed  to  the  drama,  1S6  ; 
in  reign  of  Charles  L,  186. 


Quarterly  Review,  criticises  Keats, 

395- 


Radcliffe,  Anne,  novels  of,  325. 

Raleigh,  Walter,  portrait  of,  96  ;  Fairy 
Queen  dedicated  to,  98 ;  life  and 
works,  113;  extract  from  letter  of, 
114. 

Rambler,  edited  by  Dr.  Johnson,  310. 

Rape  of  the  Lock,  extract  from,  248. 

Rasselas,  310. 

Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry, 
published,  327. 

Review,  edited  by  De  Foe,  264. 

Richard  II.,  play  of,  extract  from,  144. 

Richardson,  Samuel,  account  of,  299; 
novels  of  Pamela  and  Clarissa  Har- 
lowe,  299 ;  extracts  from  novels, 
300 ;  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  302. 

Robert  Mannyng,  of  Brunne,  56. 

Robert  of  Gloucester,  56. 

Robin  Hood,  ballads  upon,  50-54. 

Roger  of  Wendover,  56. 

Rogers,  Samuel,  extracts  from  poems, 

343- 

Roister  Doister,  early  comedy,  122. 

Roland,  Song  of,  44. 

Rolf,  Danish  chief,  41 ;  descendants 
in  Normandv,  42. 

Rollo.     See  Rolf. 

Romance  language,  in  France,  41  ; 
spoken  in  Normandy,  44. 

Romances  of  Round  Table,  46,  47,  82, 

Romans,  invade  Britain,  21 ;  introduce 
letters  into  England,  25. 

Rou.     See  Rolf. 

Roundheads,  character  of,  1S6. 

Rowley,  Thomas,  poems  ascribed  to, 
230. 

Rowena,  first  English  queen  in  Brit- 
ain, 22. 

Runes,  ancient  writing  of  Teutons,  23. 


Sackvu-le,  Thomas,  first  tragedy 
writer   in    English,    122. 

Sagaman,  early  Scandinavian  story- 
teller, 24. 

Samson  .Agonistes,  extract  from,  199. 

Saxons,  their  position  in  Europe,  18. 

Scald,  Scandinavian  minstrel,  24. 

Scandinavians,  colonize  Iceland,  21 ; 
their  minstrels,  24  ;  alliteration  in 
poetry,  33  ;  adventurous  spirit  of,  41. 

Schoolmistress,  The,  poem  of,  extracts 
from,  291. 


432 


INDEX. 


Scop,  early  English  story-teller,  24. 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  novel  of  Kenihvorth, 

156;  extract  from,  419;  poems  of, 

374 ;  extracts  from  poems,  375-37S  ; 

VVaverley  novels,  411;  extracts  nom 

Ivanhoe,  49,414;   misfortunes  and 

death,  425. 
Scriblerus  Club,  rrrcmbers  of,  245. 
Sea-farer,    The,     poem    of,     extract 

from,   32. 
Seasons,  The,  hymn  to,  quoted,  290. 
Sedley,  Sir  Charles,  dramatic  writer, 

228. 
Sensitive  Plant,  The,  poem  of,  quoted, 

387. 

Sentimental  Journey,  quoted,  305. 

Shadwell,  Thomas,  comedy  writer, 
229. 

Shakespeare,  95  ;  quoted,  96;  life,  136; 
education,  138;  extracts  from  son- 
nets, 138  ;  first  edition  of  plays,  140 ; 
doubtful  plays,  141  ;  extracts  from 
Richard  II.,  144  ;  extractfrom  Ham- 
let, 146  ;  extract  from  The  Tempest, 
149;  songs  of,  169. 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  character  of, 
384  ;  poems,  385  ;  extracts  from, 
386-392  ;  death,  393 ;  lament  for 
Keats,  393. 

Shenstone,  William,  account  of,  290. 

Shepherd's  Calendar,  The,  98. 

Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley,  comedy 
writer,  319. 

Shirley,  James,  play-writer,  168;  song 
by,  1 68. 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  quoted,  19  ;  friend- 
ship for  Spenser,  98;  life,  108; 
works,  109;  extracts  from,  109. 

Silent  W^oman,  The,  comedy  by  Jon- 
son,  described,  155. 

Skelton,  John,  court  poet  of  Henry 
VII I.,  88  ;  extracts  from  poetry,  %%. 

Smollett,  Tobias,  novels  of,  304. 

Solomon,  Song  of,  quoted,  26. 

South,  Robert,  eminent  divine,  220. 

Southey,  Robert,  belongs  among  Lake 
poets,  362  ;  poem  quoted,  362. 

Spain,  Arabs  in,  42. 

Spectator,  The,  published,  266;  ex- 
tracts from,  267,  270,  272. 

Spenserian  stanza,  100. 

Spenser,  Edmund,  life  of,  97;  poems 
of,  98  ;  Fairy  Queen,  102  ;  extracts 
from,  101-107. 

Sterne,  Laurence,  304. 

Steele,  Sir  Richard,  life  of,  264 ;  pub- 
lishes The  Spectator,  266  ;  extract 
from  his  essays,  267. 

Stilhngfleet,  Edward,  eminent  divine, 
220. 

Suckling,    Sir    John,    177;    life    and 


works,  1 78;  a  loyalist,   180;   play- 
writer,  228. 
Swift,  Jonathan,  life,  274;  works  of, 
275  ;  extracts  from  Gulliver's  Trav- 
els, 276,  277. 


Taillefer,  Norman  minstrel,  44. 
Tamburlaine,  play  of,   extract   from, 

131- 

Tatier,  The,  published  by  Steele,  265. 
Taylor,  Jeremy,  eminent  divine,  221. 
Tempest,  The,  play  of,  extract  from, 

Teutons,  of  Aryan  race,  20 ;  tribes  of, 
22  ;  migrations  in  Europe,  28. 

Thomson,  James,  28S. 

Tillotson,  eminent  divine,  220. 

Travels  in  Palestine,  extracts  from, 
07. 

Trelawney,  Captain,  friend  of  Shelley 
and  Byron,  393. 

Tristram  and  Isoud,  47. 

Tristram  Shandy,  304. 

Troubadours  in  France,  44. 

Trouveres  in  France,  44. 

Troynovant,  mythical  name  of  Lon- 
don, 47. 

Tyndale,  William,  translates  the  Scrip- 
tures, 85. 

Udall,    Nicholas,    early    comedy 

writer,  122. 
Utopia,  extracts  from,  86. 


Vanbrugh,  Sir  John,  comedy  wri- 
ter, 286. 

Vicar  of  Wakefield,  extracts  from, 
315,  316. 

Vision  of  Piers  Ploughman,  poem  of, 
62  ;  extract  from,  63. 

Vortigern,  British  king,  22. 

Voyages,  first  written  in  English,  38  ; 
to  the  New  World,  84. 


Wace,  Anglo-Norman  trouvere,  48. 

W'ales,  Britons  inhabit,  22. 

Waller,  Edmund,  life  and  works,  181 ; 

a  Royalist,  181. 
Walton,  Izaak,  writings  of,  219. 
Wavcrley    Novels,    account   of,    412; 

quoted,  49,  414,  419- 
Webster,  John,  plays  of,  163. 
Welsh  people,  account  of,  22. 
Westminster    Abbey,  Poet's    Corner, 

70;    Caxton's    printing-office,     81; 

Spenser  buried  there,  99. 
Wilfrid,  biography  of,  36. 


INDEX. 


433 


William  of  Malmesbury,  45. 
William  the  Conqueror,  invades   En- 
gland, 43  ;  encourages  learning,  45. 
Williams,  Captain,  friend  of  Shelley, 

392- 

Will's  Coffee-house,  in  Dryden's  tmie, 
239;  club-meetings  there,  245. 

Wither,  George,  life  and  poetry  of,  172. 

Woden,  god  of  the  Teutons,  23. 

Wolsey,  Cardinal,  satire  upon,  8S. 

Wordsworth,  William,  34S  ;  publishes 
Lyrical  Ballads,  350;  at  head  of  Lake 
School,  350  ;  his  poetic  theories,  350, 
356,  357;  extract  from  poetry,  358; 


sonnet  quoted,  359 ;  Ode  to  Im- 
mortality, 360  ;  opinions  upon,  362. 

Wotton,  Sir  Henry,  extract  from 
poem  by,  171. 

Wyatt,  Sir  Thomas,  poems  of,  89. 

Wycherly,  William,  comedy-writer, 
229. 

Wycliffe,  John,  61  ;  his  preaching,  62; 
life  and  works,  64. 


York  Minster,  built,  36. 
Young,  Edward,  poems  of,  287. 


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